His movements were quiet, slithering strokes of heathen empires and demon monarchs, wicked, trenchant, silent. Knotted immorality, contorted apathy, primal violence in the sanctity of sin and iniquity, the devil lavished him with gifts, and he starved the souls of his bestial abyss with the vibrant sinew of malice and contempt, varnished in the glow of transgressions. Unattainable, unreachable, he stalked the fabric of wanton trespassers, caught invaders, tossed the sliding whims and virtues of their fanciful hearts, desires, into nothingness, scorned and scorched, seared and simmered, by the wake of his demonic desecration. Hallowed and hallowed by the infernal bliss of mordant entropy, swallowing the foolish, the inane, the inept, grinding and fueling the fervent friction of unholy, vehement violence. The touch, the taste, the rapture of its seditious bliss was an ensnaring, beguiling trade, molten and treacherous, brewed with all the bewitching temptations of a barbaric, savage upheaval. Tartarean guile enameled with iron intimidation, the fiend wallowed in the shade and shadow, grasped the darkness in a taut fist, wandered over valley and shoal, guarding, consuming, devouring until the trace of another caught his attention. It was familiar, but not overly so; he couldn’t put a name to the creature that lingered along their borders, that called for a sovereign. It piqued his interest, invoked his curiosity, incensed his inquiry, and since the day had not been bombarded by ignorant travelers, he chose to follow the smell mingling amongst the frigid air.

The travel did not take him long, over rancorous rime, slush and the dampening chill that spread throughout the Basin. His eyes, the severe slate of his stare, recognized that he was not the first to arrive, a femme not yet met or known. The weight of his gaze rested on her briefly (for at least she attempted to guard their borders), before turning to the colt-grown-stallion. The face was identifiable, he’d been amongst the gathered group of the scholar and some siren-esque mare, but time had rendered him older, no longer gangly, now scarred, having earned some credentials on his own. Still a youth, with promises to be fortified, glories to be rendered, specious benedictions to be yielded and gathered. Was this a chance to prove himself under the mass of their greatness, of their deceit, of their perilous, daunting heights? Deimos did not bother querying the lad over heraldry, the mare before him had already done so, and the hushed weight of his presence was likely enough to solidify the boy’s necessity for someone with power, precision, might and menace. The monster was mute again, but swiveled a listening ear, poised for persecution or deliverance.