The being used to the art of taking, of avaricious grasping, of snaring and entangling wants, demands, and commands, was consumed, befuddled and perplexed by the notion of gifts. In rare circumstances was he ever offered something that he had not seized with his own hand (a crown and a throne, for instance, placed not by his actions, but the meticulous decibels of an enraged engineer); distorting, unraveling, contorting his machinations into the writhing, wrathful deliberations of an immoral infidel, of an iniquitous fiend. So he was forced to stare at the gathered, in silence, in hushed, muted pondering, and presume misgivings, doubts, suspicions. What drove others to grant things to one another? Affection? The Edge and Basin harbored none of these devotions, fondness or warmth; they were more likely to sever each other’s throats than bestow and lavish presents. Artifice? Did something lurk within the confines of the glazed scorpion, an enchanted eye, a ghostly spell, a mighty, Troy affair gallivanting as innocence? The inability for the flying beast above to truly answer his question left little peace nestled in his blackened, nefarious heart – instead the licentious muscle continued to beat ceremonious dins of war, where it tangled in vexed, eternal apathy and bedlam, resting amongst endless enmity. The Reaper had half a notion to destroy the creation altogether, place his hoof across the intricately designed glass and watch as it shattered into shards, fragments, tiny, infinitesimal pieces, a picturesque design of how he yearned for the Edge, the world, to fall apart at their iron, cold-blooded, malevolent desires. The GildedBlade, and his fellow compatriot, the ever-intriguing Ulrik, didn’t seem to harbor the same longings, and he couldn’t pick apart if he was disappointed by these notions or merely dulled into indifference once more. Ulrik gave over his own crafting abilities, and the monster’s hardened, piercing eyes witnessed the mechanical anomaly spring forth towards the ignorant and the foolish. Perhaps he’d allow the decision of the scorpion’s existence and presence to rest upon the golden femme’s shoulders, and he allowed the slinking of his narrowed gaze to slide towards her direction, bestow her the chance to deliver the verdict upon acceptance or destruction, offering naught but his nonchalance and insouciance. Illynx could grant her own gift: a singular message on the way their worlds had shifted, or the derision, the scorn, the anger and hate still nestled between their bones.