Venomous vexations and vigilance wrapped, ensnared, coiled around the worn layers of his disheveled heart, constantly consumed by the wiles, by the ire, by the fervent derision of his scythed crown. He’d like to have ran, rampaged, like a blade, across narrow seas and craggy mountain peaks, slashing, ripping, tearing, whittling mayhem down to chiseled bones and finite sands. Never satisfied, always avaricious, clinging to the hours, the months, the seasons of ice and rime, of meticulous domination, of blackguard supremacy, and when they didn’t have it, when they couldn’t find it, when all they did was watch others flee the cracks and crag, his bitter, acrimonious pledges grew all the more rancorous. He could taste the disappointments through the wind, virulent and hostile, bestial and smug, as if he needed one more reminder of all his failures, of hypocritical motions and flawed moments – and though he chased, he stalked, he hunted down the lanes of ravenous predilection, he rarely seemed to find the right way, the correct path, to lead them all to victory, to absolution, to empires instead of ruin. If he pleaded, if he begged, if he crawled on his knees and asked the world, yielded to ghosts, the memories, to fractured reverence, a time before he was cold and indifferent, would it have made a difference? Would the realm have yielded its mastery to his infernal depths, to his diabolical inclinations, to his iniquitous, clawing chains? Or was he simply too consumed, too damned, too consigned to oblivion to wander anywhere near the thrum, the pull, the push, of victory? Was he too much of a warrior to ever be enough for a chilling throne – too burdened by the weight of violence, too weakened by the carnivorous lines in the sand? Deimos wished the kingdoms, the world, would tell him he was no good and get on with it.
 
The winter Lord’s eyes shuttered against the sun, and he drifted closer to a cave, peering into shadow instead of spring reverence. His skull skimmed over the edges of light and darkness, and his motions pulled him back into the entanglement of brush and pine, a minatory passage of one more patrol, one more capricious descent into a territory that stumbled and faltered more than it savored (because of him, the unworthy beast, the ridiculous, worthless King?). A sound drifted over the valley, enshrouding his ears, but the savage thought he’d heard wrong, the tones and bells unclear, the breeze stoking his name in finery, and that certainly wasn’t right, because no one ever yearned to see him – their arcane, reticent, evil oeuvre, the monster who guarded and the beast who’d always be fallen. He paused anyway, lifting his cranium to listen, his ears the only piece of movement enshrouded upon his entire marbled being; silent and stalking, deadly and poised, arched into detachment and decadence, posed and prosed for the slaughter.
 
He recognized the tone, the clarity, the signature - Rexanna - and the puzzling notions wove their spider silk through his machinations, attempting to procure the reason for why she’d require him. Had there been more intriguing news of the foreign lands, of armistices no longer in balance, of threats cascading, colliding, over the horizon? Was there danger to his home, to his land, to his brethren, to his people, that he hadn’t seen, that he hadn’t known (and he was too late, far too late, to do anything but fight, fight, fight until his dying breath?)? The sentiments were scarring, belligerent, bestial, and he marched like a steady drum, like a rapacious, poetic sword, taken from its scabbard and drawn for the ensuing battle, crossing over pebbled trails and eerie ramparts. Down below, he noted her gilded hide, still radiant, still golden and glowing, resplendent and untroubled in the morning air; his stare narrowed to a patient degree and decree, harboring dominion and stature again when an onslaught didn’t appear imminent. “What do you require?” He clamored to her, uttering calculating vocals from above, then following another path until he met her, yards away, stoked and stroked, taut and tethered, a lineage, a signature, of remorseless ventures sprung between undulating muscles and coiled control, awaiting some trial by fire sure to take place.

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

  No clamors, no battles, no fights or feuds echoed across their meeting – just the truth, brutal and blunt, forthright and keen, scorching and smoldering. The Thief’s first words left a sharp intake of shame scratching down his chest, notched carefully down the thickened walls of his heart, closer and closer until they could almost touch the violent, beating crescendo of the nefarious, blackened organ. They haunted the inside of his skull and rattled through the caged machinations, harpooning legacies and triumph, skewering predilection and potency, devouring any fledgling notions that his actions could be salvaged. They burned and seared along his flesh, along his soul, along the essence of him that had always strived to be better than everyone and everything, trying to lift stone, ice, rock, and rubble from its ruins with his violence and upheaval, with his chaos and control. She’d noticed the disappearances, the quiet, the desolation – far more than the mountains had ever seen – and if it was growing all the more apparent, they might as well have been damned, consigned down into the reaches of failure (and he knew, at some point, it was his fault, and the sword should’ve been pointed towards his chest, keen and honed, fervent, eager, and ready to send him to where he truly belonged). His eyes flickered to her frown, then cast back onto the ground, as if he didn’t deserve to speculate, to reflect on her sentiments (was she disappointed in him too – their failure King, their worthless, garbage Lord, their despairing, foundering sovereign?). Would this be a deserved berating, beating, a chastising of his ridiculous efforts, a stumbling, a fumbling, a prickling of thorns against his heavy, cumbersome crown?
 
Deimos waited for the ax to fall.
 
Do you think less of me too?
 
But instead, instead, she proffered a notion, an idea, and the Reaper’s head lifted, piercing eyes back upon hers, utterly mystified and bewildered. The King stood there as a caricature of his normal nonchalant self, appearing dumbfounded and perplexed, a demon-child nestled along the cavern walls and boulders, bewildered by the direction shift, by the compassionate change. He might have smiled beneath the weight of his burdens, because for once someone had a concept, a vision, without screeching or maligning, without bitterness or recourse, without designations of damnation bored through his cranium. The beast listened, rapt and attentive, as she spoke of recruiting, hosting a festival, allowing others to roam past their borders and walls, to stand, gawk, and admire the beauty of the evenings. Interacting had never been one of his talents, but he was willing, willing to try anything and everything, because he couldn’t stand to see the Basin crumble and flicker away anymore than it had. “You think they would come?” The query was innocent, without fault or deception, attempting to whittle away the core of their purpose and motivation – to bring more and more into their world (so they would stay); and his mind raced at the possibilities of other, awful things happening (enemies suddenly crawling through the door, threatening their livelihoods, their children, their power and prestige). They’d attempted a similar thing when the GildedBlade had been Queen, but their clamor, their din, their riot to the God of Time had occurred on clouds and dust, and demolished by phantoms, by monsters, by threats soon after. “We tried, once.” He offered to her, a speculation, while his stare settled on the sky, on the horizon that always prospered and promised a flicker of bright, vivid colors and hues; he’d rarely ever reflected on them before, passing beneath their wares just as he did with the mountains, promising to guard and protect them but not much more. “We held a festival to honor our patron God, but it was elsewhere, and soon diminished by an incoming threat.” He half-smiled, one side of his lips curling upward, appearing very much like the lost boy of the tides, born to a fire king and a woman of stone, before death took his heart. “I am willing to try again.”
 
He paused, mouth pressed together in thought, eyes sliding back and forth over rock and rubble, over valleys and ice, spring songs and machinations coiling their way through his mind. “We could present the idea at a meeting,” he hid his inward grimace (because even the notion of another one gave him a head-ache), and proceeded onward with what Rexanna deserved. “Thank you for the proposal. I am grateful for your insight.”

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

  He watched; always watching, always waiting, always analyzing, calculating, drumming up conditions and oaths, assurances and allegiances, upheavals and chaos, eyes drawn to hers as she considered his queries, his questions, his statements. The beast felt like a child, chastised and overwhelmed by the proceedings again, a boy king instead of Lucifer’s opus and oeuvre, restless and unnerved by the tasks before him, hoping to be guided by a higher plain, by someone or something better than himself. His ears tilted, his face shifted, his gaze was naught more than eldritch abominations and visions of the sea (the moonlit tides, when they glistened and beamed, when his father was great, grand, burning against the horizon, when his sister lorded over the beach, when his mother looked on), still presuming an executioner’s cleaver was soon to be slashing through his nape. The Thief managed to keep the hatchet away, however, clinging to soft smiles and words of wisdom, sagacity, abilities he couldn’t grasp no matter how hard he tried (because notes and machinations about battle were one thing – but to keep them all together was another portion altogether, and he’d failed, he’d failed miserably), assuring him that the idea would pull through. “If you are sure…” his voice trailed off in hesitancy, in its age-old gravelly tone, punctured by snippets of power and defiance, wanting to do anything to tie and tether them in unity instead of disdain and spite. “We can see if another would be willing to go with you.” While the Lord was certain Rexanna could handle herself, build on persuasion and tactics, cloaks and daggers, harpsichord whims and mercurial pursuits, he wanted another there, either for persuasion, guardianship, or wits.
 
Another moment clawed at the Reaper, churning through his mind, enveloping his senses, sparked and incensed on the sentiments of coercion and inducement – he was so used to the battlefield with all its snares, with all its lies, with all its specious qualities, but now it flickered in ferocity, entangled itself down into his Machiavellian mindset. Was there was another way to encourage the band, the empire, the sovereign, to combine and blend? Was there another way to ensure they’d be together, strong and savage, enduring and tenacious? Was there a way to assemble and construct mighty forces again? Deimos’ stare lingered back on her for another instant, extending the proclamation, the notion, the idea to her for approval. “What if we were to hold a contest at the same meeting?” He paused momentarily, letting the conception, the visualization, gnaw at his skull and kindle along his tongue, brooding for a few instances or so, before proceeding again. “Some form of competition? To see who can recruit the most newcomers?” The piercing juncture of his gaze rested solely on her, pondering if she’d accept the wild conviction, if anyone would conspire to be the victor of such a game, or if that too was to be one more laughing stock on his road to ruin.

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