The tent was moving.
 
He watched from the edge of the lake, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, senses honed and sharpened. Like a predator, like a carnivore, like a brutal, bloody blackguard, he waited, witnessed, a bold king on the fringe of his throne. The questions poured through his mind, a scythe, a cutlass, a blade, stalking and prying, scheming and unwinding – pondering over the mess of cloth billowing in the wind. Had a Plague meeting started, without his knowledge, without his wisdom, conspired amidst his ignorance? Did others converge secretly, playing in covert shells and veils, not wanting the rest of the land to know of their plans? Was something being concocted in the midst? Was his empire in danger, submerged in treachery? The queries kept coming, one after another, until he was naught more than a beast, muscles coiled and undulated, poised and tethered and taut, strung together by notches and harpoons and daggers – and he thought for a moment about murder, about mayhem, about soulless, heartless dragoons and pursuits, a Machiavellian rapier cutting through flesh and bone…
 
Then Lochan appeared at his feet, watching the way his breaths callously brewed through the air, in great, smoldering, seething, simmering puffs, twisting his fawn-head towards the canvas, nodding and extending a bestowal before wandering away, over snow and ice to others lurking across the glass.
 
An invitation.
 
The Reaper’s stare was drawn back to the ivory and rose hued stag pilfering along the way, cheerful and exuberant, ebullient and strange, shouting out things to the world, puttering into the confines of the tent where he could hear no more. He tilted his head, arched a brow, and moved forward, drawn by suspicion and curiosity, the sway and swagger of vehement beasts, completely rattled and confused as to what was going on in the hidden lair. The demon lowered his skull beneath the flap, brandishing it aside to peer within – and instead of knives or stilettos, axes or shields, he saw berries, leaves, and flowers. No rebellion, no sedition – just…idle things, nestled in the crook of the Haruspex and the Weaver’s entities.
 
The Lord was only struck with utter confusion, gawking half-in, half-out of the trappings, features hardened into their nonchalant exterior – but his eyes must have displayed some befuddlement, some puzzlement, some mystifying element – and if they hadn’t, his voice painted it for them, deep, resonating, and perplexed. “What are you doing?”