A beast, a demon, an infidel, a cretin on the rock and rubble, Lucifer’s sword thrust into reality, his ambitions had always been for power, for might, for decadence, for great, grand licentiousness – but the world always tilted, always changed, always eroded the best laid plans. So he’d been kept to tending armistices and alliances, so he’d been herded into the stream of peace and repose for the sake of his comrades, patriots, and munitions; and no matter how bitter, how rancorous, the notion tasted, the Reaper still chiseled it within his brow, across his membrane, into the fathoms of his Machiavellian schemes. Too many had disappeared, too many had wandered, too many had simply vanished for him to believe in their rigid, cold, hard, unyielding strength; they had to be built up again, layer by layer, enamel by enamel. There was no glory in loss or weakness, in fragility or feebleness, so while they strived for rigor, for balance, he had to draw and sketch himself anew too – and it was so hard to be someone other than the choking, stifling, all-consuming Reaper, with his rapier extended and his soullessness scorching, sliding, smoldering. When he wanted to do naught more than thrust his blade into an enemy’s heart, when he wanted naught but the extermination of a foe, he had to maintain patience and regard. When he craved anarchy, when he yearned for rebellion, when he desired and longed and coveted the arts of sedition, insurrection, and bold, intrepid war, the world told him no. Nothing would come of it but ruin and devastation, his herd in tatters, his kingdom a mess, his throne toppled and cracked and decimated. It wasn’t what the sovereignty needed – and no matter what he’d twisted and tethered himself to, the selfish notions had to be contorted into another region of his barbaric, sinister soul. The devil had to alter, had to morph, had to change to be of any benefit to his people.
 
A result of his slow erosion arrived at their borders: all fire, all embers, all strength and power and distinction. But it wasn’t Gaucho’s home, and he seemed to recognize the sentiments of another world, another empire, where his domination wasn’t truly supreme; and there the northern King arrived, molded and melded and modeled into the horizon. A wandering shadow, a pernicious monster, a titan of the ice and rime, a beacon of the chill and the glaciers and the cold, impenetrable walls gazed at the Pegasus from beside the towering sentinels. He tilted his head a fraction, as if to proclaim, ensure, he was not all statue, not all marble and stone, minute movements and motions reflecting in his nonchalant, distant, indifferent features. The beast didn’t mention the late season, the turn of Tallsun and how it’d already fallen to Orangemoon before the promised meeting; he was only regarding the extension of an oath now fulfilled. He released a singular bow, a bob of the head, a recognition of masters meeting masters, a convergence of kings, jaw unhinging for a few moments to notch the fringes of his home with cool detachment. “Gaucho – come in.” The beast’s great skull, a sword, a shield, extended towards the grand valley already emblazoned with snow, narrowing his eyes in speculation, in inquiry, but voicing none – because he truly wondered if any of his actions prior to this meeting had done his empire a favor – or if he was going to be the one laying them in the dust all over again.