The world toiled and altered in intriguing, interesting ways. Perhaps the trials and tribulations of warfare had snagged and sculpted them in strange, morphed channels: still muscled, still hone for battle, still raging and defiant; but for more pressing priorities, like their herds. Though Deimos could still gladly give himself away to bloodshed (because it was chaotic, because it ravenous and clawing and tempestuous and it made each devilish contortion of his frame all the more satisfying), he didn’t saunter down into canals and avenues and trails led by Plague efforts or motives. His passion had been invested and contorted into the whims of the nefarious, chilling mountains; he christened cold-blooded decisions, he consecrated calculating abominations, he wove the wishes and foundations of an immoral, licentious world – and it seemed Gaucho continued to do the same. He wasn’t going to bend or throw his hot, unwavering sands into the midst of invasions, crusades, or campaigns without reasoning. The tactics and stipulations made sense, and it could’ve been far worse. The Basin could’ve been denied anything and everything, left to wonder and ponder at the mistakes and flaws and defects in their (his) regime. For now, he would snatch and take what had been offered and bestowed, and not look away with audacity or dissent. There were no seditious ploys or crafty, cunning snarls threaded through his features; just the bold intentions of a beast coiled on his throne, pleased, satisfied, gratified, and content with the parcels of gold and silver lain at his feet (and wouldn’t he have liked to rub it in the Forsaken’s face – that he’d been able to secure two alliances on his own, without simpering or smiling or cooing at their heels). The Lord’s eyes pinpointed directly into the Wildfire’s, and his skull brandished a solid, stoic nod, mouth parting to agree to the proposed treaty. “The Basin accepts, and will hold your terms as our own.” Though who was more likely to join the other in violence and vehemence? Who was more likely to bound towards a restless, agonizing cause? It all depended on the outcomes, on the stratagems, on the ploys and what ifs and benefits towards one or the other. There were too many possibilities to weigh, too many nuances to decipher, too many monsters left wandering out on moors and fields. If a day ever came when war was imminent, where trumpets resounded and bedlam flared and munitions howled…the proposals and war contracts alone would be engrossing. But he didn’t know the future like their God of Time, and the Reaper could only finesse his dark, brooding determination and resolution for what tomorrow would bring. The infidel continued amidst his pondering, gaze never faltering, never straying; strength brewed, endowed, and constant. “Inform us if you require anything from our crafters or healers.”