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08-21-2013, 09:58 AM
The argent monster listened, returning to his ruminating stances and hollowed, voiceless musings, resonance ceasing as the darkened threads of his brutal sentiments collided and corroded the atmosphere. They could give the stag purpose; they could draw him from stone and march him across the din of battlefields, they could usher him across borders and have him guard their kingdom of ice and rime, they could prod him to sneak into enemy territories and plunder their goods, wares, livelihoods, possibilities were endless when a creature had not yet found his role in life and desired to fulfill it. The Reaper’s stare twisted, fixating upon the mechanic’s companion and newcomer meeting, calculating with the chilling prowess of his rank, experience and wisdom. But did the stranger, this Torleik, feel disdain? Yearn for it upon his opponents? Want them spinning, withering, writhing, screeching for salvation, burying them under their prayers and laments, dirges and requiems? Was he infused with malevolence? Perhaps, if pushed, if forced, if compelled to wind his way around the layers and seditions of abhorrence, but to the General, he didn’t see the wayward glimpses of contempt, the spark of insurrection. The notion of the mentioning the Plague died across his cranium, and he sent a noteworthy gaze towards Ulrik rendering the same notion; perhaps in another time, another place, when the walls around them had shown Torleik supremacy, dominion, and where he should stand among them. There were no reasons to unravel secrets, munitions and weighted loathing upon a soul showing none of its shared beliefs. But now, the two-horned asked what they would require of him, and Deimos nearly smirked, a corner of his mouth creasing, lifting, in light indentation. The necromancer practiced the stranger’s calling, rested it firmly along his tongue, nodded his head in a firmer, perhaps more affable, greeting. “Torleik.” He wouldn’t be greedy, avaricious or conniving, because their assurances were simple, contained in the bouts of frigid air and haunting beauty, where enigmas gathered, mighty, staunch, valorous and proud. He would ask the same as any for the labels he strung across his mouth now, unadorned and classic, an empire’s ambience. “Loyalty. Strength.”
