The Reaper donned his heathen cloak and stood amongst the threshold of the never-freezing lake, staring amidst the grounds, the territory, the great, grand sovereign he reigned upon. In the bewitching scale of dawn, along the outcrop of domination and soullessness, he pondered what had become of all of them, what had altered, what had been thwarted, deceived and mended. Why did some run? Why did some flee? Why did, no matter how hard they tried, escape to somewhere else? Why did he care?
 
How many souls had been thwarted here? How many lives had been changed? How many wiles, schemes, and ruses had been concocted, failed, and manifested again? How many times had they ruled the realm with cunning, with determination, with absolute, vital resolution? How many times had they made the world tremble from their ferocity? From their might? From their cruel, twisted endeavors? When beasts spoke of the Basin, did they still tremble? Did they still shudder? Did they remember the battles, the wars, the invasions, and campaigns? Did they recall the feeling of defiance, the pulsing, pervading itch of insolence, of contempt, of belligerent, barbaric loathing? Could they imagine the weight of their overwhelming swords? Could they piece together the art of their ethereal, savage dedication? Their persistence was an eclipsing, overwhelming stretch of bedlam and concoctions, rising past all their dismal, floundering defeats, all their humbling, impoverishing moments. Their leaders had been strong, conniving, immoral and flanked by iniquity, passion, and horror – all vile, all wicked, all strong. He wondered where he’d be remembered; perhaps scorned, perhaps forgotten, perhaps a fallen form on the backdrop of an ivory, indifferent canvas, where all their weary souls had gone to rest, where all their deceitful measures wandered off into the pale, hollowed void. Eventually, he too would be one more Reaper, slashing his scythe a final time, meeting the Lucifer, the Mephistopheles, who’d orchestrated and sculpted his frame from audacity and loathing. Another Lord sent to slaughter, another King crumbled into dust.
 
But through it all, he was a part of the mountains, a part of the snow, a part of the ferocious, ardent tirades and knotted, coiled shadows.
 
They’d been built from hate and anointed from vehemence, rancor, and vengeance. They’d wanted, they’d yearned, they’d craved, and in the end, after all their defeats, all their struggles, all their damned ruses, they’d managed to find a stronghold in the snowy, frozen abyss; tied and tethered by nonchalance, by defiance, by sedition, by rebellion. Didn’t it make sense for others to leave, subverting the decay, the savagery, because that was all they knew? All they understood?
 
Then, why, while all the brutality, all the horror, all the terror was still strung along his bones, through his blackened, cold, cruel little heart, did he remain?
 
He sighed into the aperture, watching the curl of warmth float away from him, ensuring he was still a living, breathing specimen, not just a statue, not just a column of marble or stone, then set his sights on naught but the rippling of the lake. He received not a single answer to his queries. The summits stayed vigilant and silent, proffering him naught but their dangerous, beguiling pinnacles, guiding him to destruction, to ruin, and to a mass of aspirations.

[Impending history lesson for those who requested it. Feel free to join! ;D]

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.