Back in the Dark World, Blackmore had forcibly dragged Aeon all the way to his throne room in the castle, where he did most of his scheming and plotting. As soon as he entered, the door closed behind him on its own accord, even putting up chains to secure it in either corner; the demonic lock in the centre shut itself, so Aeon had no chance of getting out.
"So, you're the black sheep amongst the little gang, hm? The rotten apple, yessir," said Blackmore, assessing Aeon as he sat down on his throne.
Aeon stood his ground, trying not to display fear to this superior villain. "You could, uh...say that."
Blackmore squinted slightly. "Have we met before?"
Aeon's pupils shrank. Crap, he thought to himself, I can't tell him about that! He'll kill me for sure! "Er...no, I don't think so."
Blackmore just shrugged. "Very well. Now...Aeon, is it? I'm going to attempt niceties here. I won't blow your fleshy head off of your shoulders."
Aeon practically punched the air and did a little victory jig; or, at least, the smug smile on his face suggested he would have, had he the choice.
"Provided you agree to aid me in killing that bothersome blue boy and his blonde-haired bufoon of a friend." He smiled, staring at Aeon as he said "blonde-haired buffoon".
"What, that's all?" Aeon smirked and tossed a knife up in his hand. "Piece of cake."
"Yes, yes, confectionary treats and what have you, yessir. But before we can get around to our little business, I have somebody I would like you to meet."
He raised himself out of his throne and threw his cape open. Blackmore's eyes began to glow, a chaotic fire scorching in them. A black mist appeared several feet away from him, and Aeon watched in awe as the black mist swirled around like a miniature cyclone of darkness, eventually taking shape. When at last the mists finally dissipated, there stood before Aeon a grim figure. Grim would be the best word to describe him, for he indeed looked like the Grim Reaper himself: a large phantom dressed in a flowing black robe with the hood pulled up, a fanged skull for his head, and a large scythe gripped in his clawed fingertips. All along his robe were clocks, all of varying shapes and sizes, though none of them seemed to move - they were simply stuck on random times. He didn't stand so much as float, given that he lacked legs.
"Lord Blackmore," he said in a deep, hollow voice that seemed to reverberate endlessly, "I am pleased to be of assistance to you."
"This," said Blackmore with a proud grin, "Is my right-hand man: Deathwatch."