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10-26-2014, 12:34 PM
The Reaper followed the flow of his son’s movements, his scent, his essence, coiled tightly and bound with the exuberance and wonder of a child. When the notion of a gathering became all too apparent, he bided his time, watched from a distance, lurked amidst the shadows, a silent observer, pondering over the wiles of his scion and the ongoing, tempestuous airs of Thranduil and the GildedBlade. Were there not so many, he may have pried himself from the annals of decay and dusk, clasped and clenched the information tightly to his skull, collected the necessary folds and entertained thought of mayhem, but instead, he merely watched the actions of Erebos, the softening of his voice, the heightened folds of the others’. Drama, trials, turbulence had been in full glory, manifesting in one dead Basin patriot and two children knocking upon their door: in other circumstances, he may have chased down the murderer, he may have stalked, hunted, pressed his deadly wiles and finessed his vicious violence upon those who’d concocted the crime, but the call to order was a necessity, and as Thranduil seemed to lose his entertainment, the Lord, the winter King, found his in providing a source of finality for the babes. Children could be molded, could be crafted, could be refined, into another portion of strength, of knowledge, of wisdom, of preservation; for they’d all been sculpted once, babes born with blank slates, then guided into clawing shades or menacing prowess, cloaked and shorn into the dominating souls of the present, of the future. He maneuvered close to his own, allowed a brief moment for his maw to ghost over the tips of Erebos’ ears, before slanting his intimidating prowess towards the duo, narrowed, piercing eyes assessing their worth, their might, their will. They had a penchant for survival, a tale to wreak havoc, and he wondered what else chipped and dipped against their skin, if loyalty could be brandished, given, if they could survive another storm. They’d be given a chance, at the very least, to see what they were made of: tenacity and iron, or pity and ineptitude – time would tell, events would unfold, and they’d be permitted to grow in the arches and pathways of the ice, of the rime, of the beautiful and corrupt. His stoic, impassive voice stole across the threshold, bestowed and proffered, one gracious opportunity to fallen youth. “You are welcome to stay.”
[Just moving this along for Adelric and Zunden!]
