He was violent precision and venomous puissance, danger billowing from corners and corridors. The entity, the entropy, the essence of his cool, calm predilection had been cultivated from layers and lacquers of time, space, and malice, a brooding, chilling corruption of the soul. Amidst the winter splendor, along the darkening, twisting shades, Deimos was predator and monster, a demon amongst the masses, a vigilant, carnivorous creation tucked between shadows and caverns, collected and gathered by the nuances, by the sentiments, by the thoughts and feelings of Mephistophelean masterpieces. The Reaper’s opus was a careful, callous, calculated sculpture of refinement, poise, and disaster – he was might and calamity, destruction and ruin, and his name resounded through the hills and valleys as an instrument of terror and fear. But to the lands, to the terrain, to the empire he ran, none should’ve been horrified by his appearance, by his roaming, wandering, forbearing figure, because while he was haunting and hunting, he did it all for them; each and every individual scalding and surrounding his beloved, glacial fortress. He’d fight for them. He’d maim for them. He’d terrorize for them. He’d die for them. His cracked, nefarious heart bled for their iniquities, for their triumphs, for their conquests, and for their losses and defeats. The beast stood in front of their frames as he called for arms, the infidel bore down on their attacks, and he chased after their fiends, swallowing and consuming the threads of threatening measures. Warrior and king, soldier and titan, blackguard and Lord were all titles and legends brandished across his shoulders and chest, along his muscles and sinew, amidst the virile scars and the elongated sword; but he was more than what they could ever imagine (crueler? Harsher? Kinder? Who was to know and who’d be the one to claim they’d seen him at his best or at his worst?)

But he was summoned from the murk and devilry, sought after time and time again for duties and diligence, for welcoming more souls into the upheaval. The savage accepted the beckoning with his raw, biting silence, staring across the melting ice and the rimed walls, encompassing his kingdom within the piercing, penetrating glance of his deep, ruminating stare. Curiosity won over reluctance, for it was an ever-strident sound – that ample luxury of interest and fascination – and his steps wound around the interior of his world with a rapacious air, all wolf, all sovereign, all brutal, vibrant calamity. Eventually, he found the source of the call – Sialia, the Corporal (and he never knew quite what to make of her; if she simply existed amidst their realm for moments in time, springing up now and again to battle, twist, shout and sneer her way through meetings), and likely what she’d found, a mare of soft, ivory hues and mismatched eyes. Dipping his cranium in rough formality to both, but mostly to the femme who’d brought the other here, his barbarian eyes examined and scrutinized the newcomer. What were her skills? What were her talents? What was she going to bring to the ice and caves, the lakes and valleys? His skull tilted, haphazard and deadly in its artful, intrigued gaze, unwinding the depths of his tongue for momentary savagery brought to life, focused entirely on the stranger. “Welcome. I am Deimos.” A keen, swift introduction, his words were only contorted and connived in such a way, before bidding his jaws, his vocals, for more. “Who are you, and how do you intend to serve the Basin?”

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.