His entity was a marble statue, unmoving, unwavering, cast in blank, expressionless nonchalance. He remained unimpressed with the creature in front of him, gallivanting upon the slush and rime of the Aurora, flaunting words and phrases that were meaningless, trite, banal and stale. They didn’t cast the stony fixture into smirks, snickers or snivels, and they didn’t move him to welcome the beast with open arms. They were empty snippets of idiocy, left to dissolve in the chilling, haunting danger of the other stag’s looming fate. The cold shards of his grating, harsh vocals only cast the line further into bleak territory, a merciless, rapier sword that remained remorseless, held in its scabbard until the right moment; judge and executioner. “You are disappointing.” The monster was forever displeased by the parade of fools, inept travelers and wandering strangers that decided to plop their useless frames into the Basin borders. Had some sense never been bestowed into these ignorant, audacious simpletons? Had they lost perception when they’d harnessed boldness and insolence? Had they been tossed over a cliff, their heads cracked upon rubble, surviving by luck and chance? Did disrespect somehow manage to claim acceptance these days? He did not slink into the boughs of some other lands, he did not wander over rubble and demolition to irritate, vex and annoy, nettle guards until they chased him out of their kingdom – so why did so many others? The thought crossed his mind to teach the jester a valuable lesson, one that remained coiled and eager, yearning for the chance to ignite and incense, trickle over the stranger’s bones until he was doused with the art of demise, the oeuvre of death. He’d committed the action before, laced and layered intruders until they fell upon the earth, gone, vanquished, rotting into oblivion, or rescued by circumstance, pieces of their souls hollowed out, empty and distorted. He’d caressed the walls of their heart until every inch of it had been strangled and consumed, and he’d willingly do it again, push and dissolve the weak, the feeble, the inane.
The only thing that saves the prowler from a silent, satanic opus was a phrase that slipped along the wind, a bubbling, brewing conviction that ceased the augured allure of deadly enchantments. I’m a part of the Plague. A creed, secretive, furtive, specious in the depths of its vows, loathing, contempt and power, had someone managed to trap itself in the small mind of this useless being. How? Why? Who had initiated his place within their devious doctrine, within the core of their carnivorous canon, in their predacious splendor? Had they seen something appealing about this creature that Deimos had not witnessed? Was there potential locked within the guise of foolishness and stupidity? His features still remained indifferent, composed, insouciant to the tirade of the imbecile, but the glacial rapture of his voice spilled over again, relentless, puncturing, lacerating. “Who recruited you?”
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