Heeding his decision, Impersonator and King drew lines in the frost, heaved and tugged, hauled and lugged portions and pieces of wasted, inept flesh. Had D’art or Crowley been there, mocking, laughing, choking down bits of sardonic, trenchant, mordant atrocities, he may have asked them to allow their Hellhounds a mighty feast. They sorely lacked either Weaver or Doctor, and so he and his loyal constituent were forced to convey the foolish sculpting and molding of giving an idiotic carcass a final chance at life. The ideas of simply ending all the actions altogether, shoving one serrated edge of his sword into its throat, chest, or barrel, burying his daggers over and over again into shards of cracked bone, or even tracing the whispering bombardments of his necromancy once more continued reappearing, stronger with each dragging motion concocted and driven. If Arah had not been there, and only his precious Loth breathing in the midst, he may have been forced to conduct any of those prior inclinations, and so when they finished, leaving an unconscious fool to the heresy of chill and treachery, he acknowledged her with a steady, firm nod, a quiet, grateful measure of his vocals. “Thank you.” If the vocals were too hushed, too inaudible amongst the mountains, he did not press for anymore, or bestow their honor twice, cold gaze fixated back along the borders, tiny Loth measured in the distance. The Reaper refused to participate in the attempts of lighthearted banter, such attempts would be easy songs and ditties for others amongst their brethren, concentrated upon the stretch of land, their kingdom, their home, and how many times he’d have to guard their icy palace. Only when Arah managed to gesture a series of queries did his sinister stare manage to bend back towards her ivory form, formulate a nod to her first. They’d return to the Basin, to the Auroras, to the rimed, frosty land that remembered the price of their glorious steps, that rekindled and stoked the fibers of his strength, of his demonic, infidel inspirations time and time again. He’d conduct his villainy, his violence, until the glacial fell apart and he was left immersed, destroyed, buried in its old, glacial walls.