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.