=filthy hot mess.

If it weren't for the constant bother that being a king came with perhaps he would be among them. Maybe he would be among the masses counting them and preparing them. Though, if they could not stand without him--they deserved to fall. his descent into the bare part of the land is quick and it is with a certain amount of grace that sits well on him. His 'grace', however, is not typical. It is something more primitive and basic. His is grotesque by definition. He clearly shows his love for every moment of it.

A lengthy yawn drawls from the lips of the arkhos. With carefully placed aggression he bares his yellowed fangs (clearly relishing in the image he is all too arrogant of) and he reclines to his backside--seating and waiting and watching. Eyes look across the plains as though he knows there is something he is missing, and yet, he also stares out in dominance. This domain could have been his kingdom...and a delightful one it would have been! Eyes narrowed and scrutinized. A smirk kissed his dark lips and the dark angel rolled his shoulder. For once was glad to be in that which he did not own. For it was those that did not wish to be claimed and those that were not that created such a perfect dynamic. --And there he remained, seated among the Dead Men, relishing in the thoughts that had come to him today.