The beast was never entirely sure what he craved more: the days of old, where all he needed to do was mutilate, devastate, and unravel, or the moments pieced together and shaped like this one, strokes of the past brought back to life across an ivory canvas. Rhiannon was one more who’d returned from wherever and whenever, because she believed in the crux and infernal essence of their world, because she cherished and honored the lays of their land. He’d done the same for what felt like centuries, tirelessly placing his heart, his soul, his diligence and devotion into each summit, into each peak.
 
He listened – one of the few, virtuous skills he’d had in his possession since birth – breaking apart his statue lines and his monument motions to flick an ear her way, to cast his stare back towards the brindled femme, to remember the way life used to be. The beast deigned for a rush of moments to witness the other stag finally cross along their path, to cease gaping and gawking, but his attention wavered; the stallion would have his instances later, after Rhiannon had said her piece, after she decided what she was going to do amongst their earth. It was gratifying, satisfying, to have her back within their icy grasp, and her intentions curled amongst his curiosity – he recalled her as a Weaver, taking her father’s position once he’d wandered off into the bracken and hillsides. But it appeared as if the choice was not segmented into cutting cloth again, perhaps she’d had her fill, but of dual ways to serve. Another smile hastened to his lips, small and minute, but there all the same, not dragged through merciless, ruthless rows or hung from nooses amongst the gallows; merely resting comfortably in the hollows and hallows of yesteryear. There were always advantages to having cretins and fiends in more than one role; those who maneuvered within shadows, those who snagged information, those who toiled in thievery and exploits were bound to require fighting skills – it was the nature of their employment. While his reign had been sprung from the warrior edges and the soldier fringes, she wanted to pay tribute to cunning wiles and mercenary endeavors, while strengthening her tactical mind. It was a notion to be admired – he wished half as many of their healers or apprentices yearned to do the same (after all, who knew when they would be caught in a rampage, in a battle, doomed and consigned to oblivion?). The Reaper’s words maneuvered along his lips, the commendations poised and ready. “I have always believed a spy should be ready for battle,” and there the smile deepened, just a smidgen more, as if he relished the chance, the notion, of any kindling towards violence, upheaval, and distortion. “May you be a victorious Phantom.”
 
Then, the grin disappeared as he attention scattered back to the other, whose name he’d yet to hear, but whose presence had seemingly rooted itself within their glacial walls overnight.  He’d yet to interrogate him on anything – he’d been too distracted at the painting lesson to question the motivations of the stag. The penetrating, piercing weight of his stare slid solely to the older male, intending to examine and scrutinize further – intending to understand the nature of this beast who roamed without a moniker. “Who are you? How do you serve the Basin?”