His strength had been sown into the ground, drenched in pernicious, acrimonious decadence, rising calamity, impending, threatening catastrophe, and the wake of its heinous doldrums seethed only the most quiet, hushed enamel, positioned to silently entreat the world with its callous indifference. The radiance, the reverie, of his cool cataclysm endeavored the hum of his allure, and he became the stalking distortion of the Threshold again, contorting and cavorting amidst the blooms of vernal tributes, ruining them with the archaic immorality of his ravenous fire. Devoured and consumed by the predation of his beguiling supremacy, possessed and poised, ravaging the wholesome entities of friction and ethereality, the crisp, forlorn touch of the hedonistic, the infernal, the devil’s chord immersed in scintillating annihilation. He procured and absconded with the silent, sullen vigilance of his primordial treachery, aloft and imperial, overwhelming and irresistible, the compelling artifice of satanic debauchery. He was domination, sovereignty and supremacy, enamored and layered with the eternal carnage of unholy strife, locked in the statuesque recherché of his reeling, smoldering detachment. Puissance and influence, power and corruption, fueled and incensed in the wicked candor of a rapier’s brevity, sliding amongst the runes of ruins, the catacombs of enigmas, taking, ripping, ensnaring, and devastating. Designed for the art of battle, the regality of the siege, the assault, the strafe against sedition, he searched the lines of the Threshold with the same toiling diligence and resolve, plucking the forceful, the tenacious, from the seams of wayfaring, wandering vindictiveness, prompting them with a diabolical, fiendish purpose; solidarity of heathens and infidels.

Deimos, terror and horror carved into a maelstrom of pewter and argent, stroked the very fibers of the gates, forced its passages to awaken, and rippled against the torrent of verdant splendor. His ruthless gaze tore against the leaves, the boughs, the timber, and the glades, rendered the frigid, glacial prosperity of winter all over again with one rebellious glance, with one mutinous stare. The coiled roll of muscles, conformed to control, armed with taut, crisp movements, sinuously demolished the virtues of the region, coating their hopeful threads and strings with the riotous din, tumult, of demolition, lethality, mortality. But as he journeyed, he travailed against the brooding fixtures until his emotionless features cast their wicked, maligned glare upon another; horned, mare, cerulean in the pines, eyes gilded, cage weakened, infirmed, adrift in the sea of forest and imprudence. He almost walked by her altogether, eager to ignore and continue onward, detached from the earth and its innocence, but the flicker, the glimmer, of her devilish alteration ceased his movement, granted him momentary pause. Despite her obvious skeletal feebleness - was there something beneath her surface, rough and rancorous, bleeding convictions, rendering an aspiring creed? The intrigue is there, muffled but still apparent, and he chiseled away at the contours of his voice, grating, harsh, deep, resonating against the copse, as stiff and unyielding as his frame, no greetings, no salutations. “Do you have a purpose?” And is it the same as ours?