Illynx’s appearance was dutifully ignored, the Reaper’s full attention fixated upon the soldier’s, Deodat, claim, absorbing the information, attempting to piece together the puzzle, the shadows, the drawn evils bubbling and brewing amongst the familiar marsh. The bog was an eerie, chaotic, frenetic chasm all on its own, an intoxicating, venomous atmosphere that leant naught but the echoes of outcries and doldrums, haunting junctures and perilous runes; he’d ventured there often, immersed himself in the brew of satanic, irreverent reverie. But now, something else was building, assembling, whittling from the menacing waves of the entangled morass, and they were without the notion of how to combat it. How does one conquer something crafted from shadows, incorporeal, intangible, unattainable, rasping from Lucifer iniquities – not the same as he, for at least the Lord was molded and founded in flesh, in blood, in ichor pulsing, beating nefarious raptures amongst his blackened, chilling heart. Reeked of death, condemned to quietus, to the poignant catacombs and minatory sepulchers; his thoughts conformed to the meticulous machinations of how to ruin the heathen whims fermenting across the land, or implement its prowess and dominion for their own use and means. The notion that the painted warrior could have been followed caused his sinister stare to gaze along the borders, chisel across the horizon, but naught flickered, blended into nocturnal veils or bewitched, beguiled, traced its daunting heresy along their frosty decadence. Stoic features rendered back into impassive, apathetic decree, not betraying the inner turmoil and turbulence flooding his Machiavellian mind, the piercing slate of his narrowed eyes shifted back to Deodat, jaws slipping apart once more to extend his gratitude, respect. “Thank you for your efforts.” A query slid through the cracks of his stone lips, attempting to gesture the meaning, the force, the reason, behind the strange, foreign, archaic intertwining of abhorrence and animosity. “It seemed a manifestation of darkness alone? No one else conjured this scourge?” What if someone had surmised this level of power, rivaling his, gesturing and posturing scythes as perilously as himself, or worse, slashing at far more hides than he ever had? Then he thought of the fringe and verge of their land, of palisades, of defenses necessary to waylaid impending doom and destruction; he'd sow his own, but never upon the Basin itself. This creation of ill will, however, would likely not savor such jurisdictions. "Our borders will need to be fortified."