He watched, waited, and listened as predators did – a slinking, slithering salutation of corruption, chaos, and calamity, awaiting the discourse of the elder to ultimately finish. Perhaps the beast had been a thorn in sides and naught in another’s; by the layer and lacquer that he recites, he’d certainly found himself amidst decadence and devilry. Maybe he enjoyed it, maybe he nourished it, maybe he cultivated it as the rest of them did, too bitter, too rancorous, to do anything else but dive into the craft of damnation and dedication. Did he, however, want to hunted and stalked, questioned and queried? Did he want hounds loosened upon their chains, following him until the end of his days? Did he pinpoint some fault in Deimos, in Hotaru, in the sovereigns because they hadn’t gone after, sought out, the slinking, withering bones? His brow arched, the only indication of possible exasperation and annoyance – because he could take blame upon himself, because he could find fault in his character for every moment of every day, because somehow, someway, not a moment could go by without being reminded of his flaws. Deimos did not actively seek out the others of his herd without purpose, without reason, he was not a man of active conversation, of wondering how one might be feeling. He spent his days calculating moves and maneuvers, how to ensure his empire succeeded in whatever task, in whatever quest, in whatever crusade fell at their feet. He wanted them strong, he wanted them mighty, he wanted them bestial and brave – and perhaps Albrecht was those things, but by different means and measures.  “You have been busy, Albrecht.” He said no more on the particulars of not being inquired at length as to what he sought and what he craved; twisting the depths of his ears to listen to the slate of anonymity, how he enjoyed being hidden in the yearnings, in the coils, of the Basin, and pondering to what end this would lead. The old and the ugly are easily overlooked… - he almost laughed, but refrained, for even the most dangerous, the most hostile, could be disregarded, neglected, for any number of reasons. The Reaper was always one to analyze his options, to endeavor into cold-blooded machinations – and if the rogue had managed to survive in their cruel, indifferent world, he had a chance to reign in the denomination of spies and sleuths. “You may be a Phantom.” His crown nodded in assent, briefly looking to Rhiannon, before turning back to the older stag. “Rexanna will guide both of you.”

[Wanted to wrap this up for rank things! ;D Sorry about the wait!]