Acheron

RED EYES . . .

He was the guardian of the depths. of the horrors that lurk leagues below the surface, of the lovecraftian nightmares that plague the poor souls foolhardy enough to venture into the deepest trenches of the Sea. They were the lucky ones.
Placating, that was what he did for the beasts themselves. Protecting was for the mortal dragons above, blissfully unaware of the monstrosities of the Below, busy searching fruitlessly for their lost god. They were ignorant, mercifully, of the fact that most of what they'd find down in his domain were things, had they known of the Tidelord's disappearance, would not hesitate to rise up, declare themselves his replacement, their bulbous, pale, bioluminescent bodies, distended in the depressurized environment far above the seafloor sullying the throne of his Lord.
He sent me he tells them, to where he believes their massive hearing organs may perhaps be, your time has not come.
He lies, yes, that is what he does, lies to beasts greater than the Old Ones. Beasts who may well be the Old Ones. Lies despite the fact that his soul, his mortal flesh, his very Being would be consumed, agonizingly and without hesitation, should these Things ever know the truth.
Lies were his thread, his tapestry made of the wool he pulled over the eyes of demons.