The beginning of Frostfall had been a trying one for the Reaper for a variety of reasons: the Forsaken’s abrupt, then ridiculous, petulant, departure, proffering Hotaru and Thranduil crowns that several members found unworthy, the gilded Thief all but spitting at one of his own members – but the one note continuing to barb, nettle, and thorn him was how cruelly Deimos had failed his herd. A beast’s confidence could be rattled by all certain means, through battle, through discourse, through Machiavellian means or the Gods shifting their pawns, but to realize it had been him and no one else unwinding his desolate threads was a blunt, harsh reminder of his failures.

He would rather hide in a cave than greet a newcomer. He would rather maneuver through the shadows than alight the sun. He would rather lacerate a thousand virtuous strangers than run another damn herd meeting. But as all matters ran their course, as he struggled to entertain all the presumptions Ophelia had notched upon him, the truth of the matters were contained, were bottled, so effortlessly across his spine and rushing through his veins: he’d done the Basin a disservice. He’d protected them, he’d put his frame, his shield, his sword, in front of their lives again and again and again, but had also managed to skewer himself and retreat back into his hole, into his threshold, into his desolate corridors where nothing and no one could find him. It’d been painless to allow the Forsaken to saunter into various empires and grant them alliances; it’d been easy to watch the world teeter back and forth on the brink of destruction due to Hotaru’s manipulative measures – and it’d been natural to storm into a land he’d never known, never yearned for, never craved, and assist in tearing, ripping, it to shreds.

Somewhere, along the way, he’d merely molded his sanction into the walls of the glaciers and refused to let go. He’d regressed, he’d retreated, and he’d become a secretive, furtive, specious void – haunting and looming, but naught more.

Clenching his jaw, setting his ivories against one another, he took the first few steps out of his home, out of his wintry warren, settled into the remnants of the sun, and turned towards the south. If he sighed, it was an inaudible plume, if he shifted restlessly, it was buried beneath his solid, firm, composed structure, and if he held the slightest of apprehensions, they were tucked beneath piercing eyes and curling embers. The monster remained committed, dedicated, and resolute in his task, and swallowed away the rising discomfort crushing against his throat. He was no diplomat. He was no consul. He was no emissary. But, he was willing to push himself, to uproot his daggers, into the abyss for the sake of the Basin.

They, for he was in the company of Hotaru and Ulrik, marched a steady beat towards the Dragon’s Throat – his in the midst of complete, utter silence. Like a tomb, like a marble monolith, like a scathing, bestial composition set to foreboding, he maneuvered with calculated efforts and too many thoughts trickling through his darkened mind. The last time he’d entered the sandy terrain was for an invasion, following Psyche and the rest of their haughty, audacious crew into its dunes, into its horizons, for an opportunity to malign their precious home (therein, he’d watched a Pegasus mare dappled in stars break her leg at the crush of his necromancy, at the chilling rapier of his prowess). The Reaper rarely conversed with Gaucho, for stares and grunts were not a true means of communication, and he was wholly unaware of their trials, tribulations, dreams or aspirations. He’d been buried in his fortress of solitude for too long – and payback was commencing, swift, rapid, and painful.

He attempted to ignore the ache of political stature or the burden of pending conversations and explanations, shifting into an unrelenting, savage tempo once the first touch of sand scalded his hooves, broke over his concentration. Belligerent, brutal, and barbaric, his pernicious, anarchic presence would no doubt be noted quickly by some nearby sentinel, and he chose his movements, his motions, carefully. Quiet, minute, a refined poet laureate of desolation, the Lord chiseled his way to their borders (lacerating stare at once taking in the appearance of a bridge, the isolated adornments of their island, the poignant rumors and tales coming to life), and stood, a muted faction of death and statecraft brewing at their door. The beast sculpted one deep, wistful breath, allowed it to fill his lungs, his poise, his composition (how does one appear as an emissary?), before unleashing one daring, murky note – not threatening, not menacing, not malicious – and waiting near his brethren for the pending nuances and trepidations scorching along his hide. His stare cast one firm glance at Ulrik and his strong, woven canvases, at Hotaru and her rosy potential, and hoped he’d be capable of administering all the opportunities for the Basin as they had. The infidel delivered each a solid, stoic nod, and waited amidst the heat, the structures, and the dunes of a foreign land.

[A much overdue alliance/regifting thread from the Basin to the Throat! ^_^]
@[Ulrik] @[Hotaru] @[Gaucho]