He lived in ambient chill, a scythe along the sinister coils of sedition, calamity, and insurrection, crooning intimidation, treachery, bloodshed, and mayhem. The King was a piece of the mountains, a fragment given life, given death, given to destruction, devastation, and diabolical corruption. Had he not been born outside Helovian walls, allowed to thrive along a glimmering shade of moonlit waves, one might even think he’d been sculpted from one of the immoral glaciers or sculpted from a tower of discordant marble. A breathing maelstrom, a thriving condemnation, he scaled and scalded the walls of his sovereign with an iron blade and a blackened, nefarious heart – allowing it to feel, to contort, to coil only for those sheltered along his confines. The Tartarean masterpiece, the Machiavellian opus, moved and maneuvered as a glacial behemoth, covered in shadows, veiled in nonchalance, in splinters and shackles of complete reticence, virile and malicious, contorting and ravaging, calling to wreckage, to havoc, as the spirals of winter descended upon them. The demon might have yielded to nothing, not to heaven, not to hell, not to purgatory, had his curious mind not been dipped and scalded by surging iniquity, by daring intrigue, by brutal, searing interest. Through the thickened parcels and piles of snow, the Lord had caught an unfamiliar scent (predatory? Feline?), ensnared its whims, mercurial efforts, capricious pursuits along the borders, and set about catching, snatching, and clawing carnivore inclinations.
 
Did something rummage at his borders, yearning to glimpse, hoping to strike? Did someone think they could wander into their midst, calculate, devastate?
 
The narrowed, piercing, puncturing weight of his gaze settled along the apparition standing on their doorstep, regarding the wraith, the figure, with a brooding, vile examination. While both frames didn’t hint at threats, at mercenary tactics, there was something lurking, lingering, beyond the depths of this silent meeting – as if he’d seen the stranger, or his companion, before – but naught came to mind, no meaning maintained. The infidel was sharp and shrewd, would’ve recalled the ivory gaze (was he blind?) or the vicious slight of the tiger (and why could he only catch the cat’s scent?). The questions and queries immersed in his mind kept a taut, tight leash on his stature, features rekindled in the acrimonious fervor of distance and apathy; sculpted blackguard, heathenous baron, bestial titan. The length of his gaze settled upon the stranger while he afforded and proffered brief, unwinding vocals. “Deimos, Lord of the Basin.” He sliced the air with a short, curt nod, and extended his voice once more. “Who are you? What do you seek here?” There was a tangled mystery, a tethered enigma, slinking amidst the nefarious snares and disastrous coils; and he’d find it, pluck it out, before the day was done – his memories coaxed, vibrant and sure, and one measure of intrigue managed to saunter from beyond his composure and control; stare narrowing, reeling for answers. “You advised Psyche once…” His voice trailed off, tempted by recollections – a meeting after Sinuhe and Africa had ventured into their midst, after they’d been bludgeoned, beaten, and destroyed. Now, years and seasons later, the strange thing had returned?