Time wore on, rusted, scorned, and scorched, beating back all the triumph, all the conquests, they’d managed to snag and grasp – victories washed away at the turn of a hand, at the strike of a chord, at the sentiments of a fool. For all the persistence, for all the strength, for all the dominion and might the Basin represented, it wasn’t immune to change and alteration. Permanently immersed in the intricate, treacherous webbings of winter, it amassed grand prowess, regal supremacy, and overwhelming potential, but even with its sinister brutality, it couldn’t keep everything in place, aligned, or together. Their world was molding back upon itself, chiseling and funneling its way through more mishaps, more tactics, more heretics and raptures lining up for future predilections and keen reveries. The Reaper, so tied, so tethered, to its chilling creeds and overbearing nefariousness, had begun to wonder why so many strayed from its savage heights, from its crisp barbarity, from its living upheaval time and time again: an eternal cycle of shifting leaders and tossed crowns, names consigned to oblivion, woven back into the layers and lacquer of belligerence. What brought them in, only to have them undone? The monster, the infidel, the demon had stood beneath its turrets, its minarets, its scaffolds and ramparts since it was discovered – became witness to Psyche’s departure, glanced around for Mauja when he drifted away, stayed amidst the kingdom when Illynx was sent off on another mission, and bore Ophelia’s angry words when he refused her further offering of guidance as she bid her leave. Did she build us up to let us fall? Like a stone, like a statue, like a marble monolith, he broadened his shoulders and took the brunt of each egress, fed the fuel of his ire, of his wrath, of his contempt, into the fervor and fever of the auroras and all its hallowed, hollowed voids, and channeled, churned, the notions of responsibility, of oaths, of assurances, back into his mind. He’d have to tell the brethren of the north their Lady had left them all over again.

How many would care? How many would ignore, still detached, still indifferent, just waiting for another day of annihilation?

Was that a gift, a talent, a knack for living amongst Siberia: immunity from emotions, from feelings, from sentiments? Had they endured so many alterations that one more wouldn’t even feed their menacing souls? Would they simply nod their heads, and wait for the next bout of wreckage to storm through, the beasts standing in the wings? The Basin always survived, no matter the danger, no matter the strife, through obliteration, through slaughter, through damnation – they’d persevere amidst this anomaly as well.

He took to the center of the valley, the cold, winter King, and stared across the horizon, his home, for seasons upon seasons, and pledged to continue his service (to dig deeper, to solidify bonds, to strive and strike and annihilate again and again for the sake of the snow and the mountains; twist the knife, bury the sword, condemn the enemy), bowed towards the rising peaks and the glacial summits, before brewing his voice to a beckoning, twisting zeal. Deep, penetrating, piercing, it exuded the fibers, the tones, the decibels of their perilous world, and the brandishing, the enamel, of flickering, wavering tides. “Members of the Basin, I urge you to gather.” He waited, calm, composed, the same reticent figure as before (while his mind embodied all the swift, rapid changes, tried to convey them through the distorted, contorted notions), while they convened in the cool, last, lingering vestiges of autumn, in the brush, in the stroke, of Frostfall’s next seditious plunge. When enough had begun to linger, the beast continued, summoning the necessary words, the token commands. “Lady Ophelia has renounced her title for personal matters.” Instead of lingering in the bouts of rage, in the tumultuous tenors of loathing (because he so wished to do just that, strangle and suffocate the fool who’d so merrily raised them upon their pedestals again and then hacked away at their bearings), he shifted towards the replacements, the chosen ones who would continue to ensure the Basin’s success. “In her stead, I have chosen two individuals to lead: Thranduil and Hotaru. Together, we will guide the Basin through a triumvirate.” Not lingering on the weight of these decisions, or how suitable either would be (both had earned the roles and proven themselves), he continued on his path of shorn, curt, blunt speeches, attempting to fill a void he’d allowed to spiral long ago. “The Basin and Edge were victorious in the recent invasion. We will soon be journeying to each herd to either solidify alliances or establish new ones.” His resolute eyes, his steady, unwavering gaze, flickered to each of them, their bold, intrepid, stalwart members, their ghastly, horrifying, bestial cretins, and gave one more semblance. “We will be reshaping and moving forward.”


[OOC Note: It’s strongly advised your character attend this meeting in order to gain new IC information. Stay tuned for open rank applications, refurbished rules, ranks, and projects coming ahead!

Please let Thranduil and Hotaru post first! ;D]