Layers of patience, composure, and silence comprised his reticent, nonchalant being, angling his cranium in varying degrees to watch, study, and scrutinize the other occupants of his kingdom. The Impersonator proffered the stranger’s name: Tilney - before Sialia wandered into the fray, then back out. He bade her a swift nod, then tethered his piercing eyes back upon the golden stag. Another one to assimilate into their ranks, another one to brood, chisel, and unite beneath the mountain summits, along the glacial rime, across the vicious sector of poised armaments and swinging gallows – the King had always believed firmly in a strong, mighty herd. They were brethren, they were kin, and they were a dominating, pernicious force, from the furtive wings of secrets, cloaks, and daggers, the barbaric hymns of soldiers, to the specious, furtive Menders, and the industrious Weavers. He poured his strength, his diligence, his monstrosity, his tenacious, behemoth persistence into the peaks and valleys, and expected the rest of his world to do the same. Some were capable, persevering beasts, and others disappeared under the mettle and scorn. Would Tilney be up to the challenge? Would Tilney impart his talents and skills into the treacherous pathways, the rancorous edges, the hushed, satanic finesse? Would he be capable of remaining in the icy world, with its chilling fortifications, its illustrious secrets, and its remorseless fringes? The Lord’s ears flicked once or twice, catching the chestnut’s own words, seeking a home, a family (of brothers in arms, of beasts and vermin and Lucifer creations?), not as a warrior, but as one of the menders, soothers, a doctor with his lantern light pouring over patients. The Reaper paused and mused over the notion, crafty, Machiavellian mind churning over the probabilities; one could never have too many healers, especially with recent actions (invasions, constant spars, idiotic, puny morons seeking their fortunes, their livelihoods), and the cave containing herbs needed to be well stocked before Frostfall made its next appearance. Through the vivid, poignant silence, the reeling, Mephistophelean danger, the remorseless King finally announced the feral declaration. “You may stay.” He paused, continuing to glance at the lantern hanging from his antler’s, pondering and wondering over its infernal creation and purpose, but saying naught about it all over again (could he blind his enemies with it? Did it hurt when it hit an opponent’s jaw?). Instead, he proffered some names and addresses to follow, and call upon when necessary. “Find our Time Menders, either d’Artagnan or Lena, for tasks and details with your rank.”