Grimalkin did not know much, aside from the information he gleamed from the meeting. This mare, this enemy of the herd, had evidently caused quite a stir. Though his knowledge was limited, the lessons he gleamed from the snippets he was given were vast. To poke and prod inappropriately at a herd, to repetitively threaten (and fail and following through).. Grimalkin had to admire the mare's persistence, at least. But persistence without bounds nor brains was dangerous to one's own health. The steed learned a lesson from this mare's actions, a lesson the mare herself apparently could not grasp herself. Don't piss off the Basin.

It was intriguing for him to think of them as his home, his family, and that he should care for them, want them to improve in power and wealth, in fame and glory. It was what he yearned for - if the Basin could be called a strong herd, surely he could be called a strong herd-member with it?

With pricked ears and a sharp glance, the steed heard the call of his leader. He had heard it once before, and knew how to identify it now. Unwilling to fall behind on the news, he made his way towards the bellow, the summons, the trumpets of discord and announcement. Though it was not a herd-meeting as he had attended previously (he was sharp enough to realise this), within his heart there was urgency to know more, to connect with those who held power so that he might learn how to wield it himself.

Who better to learn from than the leader, who with a very stroke of his horn and inspiration of his thought could drain the life away from anything and everything around him? Grimalkin had not seen it for himself (but oh, how he longed to watch the Reaper in action), but with a name like the Reaper, and the revered status the Lord held amongst his brethren, the stallion's imagination had taken to wanderlust and wonderfully wretched imaginings. So, he travelled, swift and sure for a beast of his size and stature, weaving and bending his fit, muscled bodice over and through the lands as they shifted and warped before him. And as his emeraldine gaze happened upon the bruised and battered form of his liege, he was at first struck by the similarity the Lord had passed unto his son, the same refined crown, the same dark-edged colours of the pelt, the same stature of strength and solidarity built into his very existence.

Perhaps the palomino was looking too deeply into it, but he felt like he was peering into the future of Erebos; and he suddenly felt an overwhelming need to be a part of it, to orchestrate it, to bathe in the glory that the boy prince was surely to rise to.

"My lord," his accented tones murmured, not a deep baritone but rather a smooth and rich bass. "I am Grimalkin, a new recruit to the Basin's cause." He spoke what was necessary, filling his Lord in on his identity without any fluff or time-wasting niceties. Peering to the bony armour that lay at Deimos' feet, he huffed a small breath, before asking simply; "I trust you were victorious?" He must have been, if all that is left of his foe is their bones…

colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart