Change was inevitable; alterations swarmed and loomed with inescapable subterfuge, cloaked and heavily daggered, bleeding crimson lines of rich ichor, forcing hands and grasps to other objects to clench, to distort, to unravel. Worlds collided and divided, thrown and tossed asunder, once looming large, then begging for the final release, sizzling, searing quietus. Threats pervaded, then died off, vanished, with singular threads cut and shorn, slashed and annihilated, brewing silence in the thickened shears of damnation. The Basin’s tales were much of the same, reaped and sown in the blood of enemies, in the choking aperture of sliding scales, promise, benedictions, and contorted finales. They’d gone from affectations of ruin, conquered and consigned, to rising paradigms, then faltered whims, and driving back into the torrent of melee and circumstance: strong, capable, mighty all the same. Power, domination, supremacy through the collected efforts of their worthy gall, pride in the wicked veneer, in the barbaric ambrosia, in the precise slate of their puncturing brows. Though the beast would like to maintain an invariable, lasting, persistent feature, he too had morphed and transformed in the coming tides: breathed requiems of protection and security over an icy kingdom, where from the first ides of his march into the empire had been sprinkled with disdain, malice, and mayhem – the unearthly catacombs of his demonic possession had not fled, but the warped condemnation had: he drove ruthlessly, heartlessly, mercilessly for his people. Over and over again, he divided, mauled, mutilated, massacred and murdered, securing, protecting, persecuting. From plaguing pestilence, they hid, from beleaguered fools, they mauled, from the rush, the heat, of bedlam, of war, they pursued, relentless forces aimed to satanic prowess, carving their names into stone, into snow, into the ages of crusades, valor, and possession. And now, the thrones called, harked, heralded to see how many merchants of darkness, of calamity, of virtue and disaster knelt within their embankments, their valleys, their precipices and their stark reveries: to honor the active, the supreme, the distinctive earning their marks in the glacier. The thrones clamored for their subjects, crooned and crumbled to burden with information, to stock and furnish the open, unaware minds, to gaze and scrutinize the beings who’d come to align with the sinister edges, covert secrets, and clandestine caverns. With an unwinding chain, he scorched the air with the malicious curl of his vocals, a pressing ministration of malevolent machinations: courting the vicious, the feral, the untamed, and the ignorant, blessed and forged in the weight of their cold armor.

And while they came, down into the brim of the valley, the bestial contortions of his voice carried over the void, the pristine dale, calling, searching, grasping, ripping and tearing, bearing the incantations of their arrival. Behind the masque of death, behind the Reaper’s reticence, vehement, ominous stance, their empire blossomed and bloomed, a sentinel’s wrath baring his fangs, mountains, peaks, summits, glowing from timeless perfection, an aura of manifestation and supremacy building beyond their aspirations and ambitions. Deep, resonating, echoing over the vale of their icy venue, he proclaimed, then waited. “Loyal Basin citizens – converge. We must deliberate.” Necessity drove his tones, though he would have preferred to anoint and cast away into shadows, into silence, he bid obligations into the juncture of the burden. As they reigned from the shadows, from the gales, from the timberlines, he continued. “A union of peace has been formed between the Basin and the Edge. They are not to be targeted, and their ranks are welcome in cooperation with our own. The Falls has not accepted our offer.” He paused, ground and clenched the ivories intertwined amongst his maw; carried on through the haze, through the essentials; suffering for speech sacrifices. “Promotions are in order. To assist Lena in healing, we have named d'Artagnan as fellow Time Mender. Roland is our new Thief, and Zikar-Sin our anointed Haruspex.” Surveying the throng, gazing along those named, those deserved, granted and consecrated for their efforts, he provided tones meant to assuage those who hadn’t been bestowed the namesakes, ways to administer their power. “Lessons will be provided by the leader of each tier. Advancements will be proffered to individuals driven by these motivations, instruction, and actions.” Reaching the finale, for which the Lord could only hope came as swiftly as possible through his blunt, keen chords, he passed a notice along the din, especially for those who itched and needled for commitments, work, ethic scorched and honed. “Crafters are looking for assistance in gathering materials within caverns. Please meet with Farenjer or Ulrik for further instructions.” Then he waited, taut, rigid, reticent, for the GildedBlade to pass through her announcements – to immerse their herd in the roots, follies, and prowess so carefully conducted.

[Mandatory herd meeting; you’re excused if you’re absent. IC bonuses include: information about recent alliances, rank shifts, and being educated later on in separate threads according to your chosen rank. Please wait for Illynx to post first; afterwards, you will have one week (from her post) to get yours in. Thank you!]

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.