The warrior expected something to crawl its way out of the maze: such was the nature of beasts and heathens, and he understood them well, gravitated to fiends and demons because he was one and the same, bestial and savage, untamed and barbaric, a fluid, maneuvering blade. The world had used him as a weapon more than once; and he’d adhered to the mantle, to the siren call, like a fish to water, like a moth to a flame.
But the first thing to wander from the depths wasn’t an adversary or phantom, spirit or monster: the masked man from the settlements. Deimos’ features didn’t portray the slightest of surprise bent into his notions, remaining still, cool, nonchalant, a portrait of reticent, of unattainable, unreachable movements and motions, long since consumed by iniquity and immorality. He gave a nod to Alistair, his coldblooded gaze roaming from the outset of the veil and shroud, and back to a few stray pumpkins bothering to rumble forth, dispatching them in one feral sweep of his stick. “Perhaps I am nastier,” he smirked and replied. Maybe it was a death wish, to come here and wander, meander in the mists of curiosity, intrigue, and interest. But anyone who would ever dare to stop him weren’t here, weren’t even alive – and in the back of his mind, the thought burned and tarnished. He was already ash, smoke, and cinders.
He arched a brow at the bow, then glanced at his wooden staff, suddenly realizing that for all his nefarious qualities and treacherous enchantments, he was poorly equipped for a march into the unknown. The blacksmith’s shop hadn’t opened yet, and the forest, fields, and glens hadn’t been obliging in providing some magical, mystical treasure formed into a sword, dagger, or rapier. “Where did you get your bow?” He raised his head, piercing, penetrating stare flickering to the arched contortions of wood, the arrows nettled and perched, ready for the fray; and here he was, a pathetic, stick-wielding soldier. The Reaper ignored the quip on leading the way into the warren’s denizen, lingering in the entrance, searching for another form of weapon if worst came to worst. It always did.
