Sentient, breathing annihilation, living death, witnessed calamity derived, besotted and bestowed from his demonic daggers, from his iniquitous incantations, and lavished, relished, ultimately gratified by the bewitching nuances of obliteration. The reticent reaper watched as vengeance crooned from the chambers of their domination, from the searing, smoldering, simmering bones of their anarchy, from the twisting, malleable derisions and sedition; witnessed the fall, the faltering, of trespassers, inept, vacuous, inane cretins spoiled by entitlement. Enriched by their privilege, drunken on prerogative, beguiled and allured by the perilous temptations of the treacherous, enigmatic land, they’d been bent, torn, ravaged and savaged after the demands, the commands, the warnings had been laced and layered into the fabric of ice and rime. His distorted, nefarious eyes focused, stared, upon the corpse and felt only satisfaction, the cold, chilling, forbidding temptation of longing to do it again, to drive kingdoms into demise, perishing beneath the weight of his scorching might, withering, decaying and collapsing in one sinuous motion. This was his gift to the world, his oeuvre, his masterpiece, his callous carving, his debauched delight, his sinister sculpture: death, woven into pinnacles and peaks, hides and sinew, bones and marrow. The monster was the devil’s bestowal, Mephistopheles’s artistry, the foundation of macabre canvases and cadaverous tapestries. Another wagging tongue abolished, another audacious cretin filling its tomb, a scattered, fallen remnant of stupidity demolished on the rubble of their inanity and recklessness, savory, embedded in the core of his membrane. She did not receive the bow, the long, arching finesse from soldier to mercenary, he’d given to Jaydan, the winged warrior devoured and consumed by his tyrannical opus. She was not be given the reverie, the rapture, of the quiet, slinking opus, the hushed, serpentine measure of one last taken breath – destroyed, slammed by the chords of his vehemence and upheaval, slain by the abomination, abhorrence, of his contorted, distorted machinations, termination, slaughter for the empire. No grace uttered or possessed her motionless carcass, only recoil, chained to the withering strains and tenors of laments and dirges, no funeral, no pyre, no respite, no repose. Her body became an example, a model, an effigy, of their sovereignty, tossed and torn, bloodied and transfixed into stillness, finally silenced.

He glanced towards Alan for a few moments, otherwise remaining nonchalant, dispassionate, displaying none of the fuming ardor gathered in his pulsing, elegant entity; blackguard encompassing naught but the usual, insouciant regard. She grinned, wolfish, carnivore contemplations, and there was appeasement crossing over her features, feasting upon a clamorous offering for a returned combatant. The behemoth gave her one singular lowering of his regal cranium, representing a feat, an accomplishment conquered, a world divested of its torrents and tribulations, a vanquishing of fellow foes. His eyes roamed to the other fallen beast as Alan’s words pressed towards his ears, gesturing to the other he’d monstrously, cruelly, felled. There was the desire, the urge, the longing and yearning to commit the same atrocity over again, to execute her where she laid, pressed into glacial frigidity, massacred, butchered, consumed by the portended, augured sentiments they’d uttered prior. Instead, however, he does not move, and briefly permitted his mouth to part, open in a harsh, discordant hiss, the severe rasp of hell, unholy baritone. “She is yours.” He’d deprived Alan of a toy, and in one swift action, presented another.