For once, he wanted naught more than to escape the Basin. Despite the edges, the chills, the rough, calculated fringes of its glacial appeal, of its barbaric vitality resting in his blood, in his veins, in his bones, he’d never been more disappointed by its bitterness. The meeting had been a debacle, one more going down in the tomes as a testament of either his failures or his herd’s ever-resentful prestige, and it disillusioned the King, because he knew of their strength, of their abilities, of all that power and motion and wrath contained, and they could never work together to make anything of it. They spit and tore, writhed and clamored, became more than demons and monsters (like fighting, petulant youths, worse behaved than children quarreling over marked stoned and rocks), and it irked, irritated, annoyed him so grievously that he marched out of its confines and down into the rubble beyond. The Lord knew the effervescent, pink-hued thing, Johnny, followed, and that was enough to not turn around, not glance towards fallen, decrepit Sentinels or rising summits with no where to go and no where to turn except on each other. They’d become naught more than carnivores and cannibals.
 
So, instead of spreading his hate, his malice, his discontent, through the corridors of his home, kingdom and empire, the infidel, the cretin, set his sights upon fulfilling duties, embarking on commitments, promises, and convictions, even if no one else craved to do it. The beast hadn’t recognized his flaws, faults, and defects for nothing – he’d traversed, he’d carved, he’d pleaded their case so the world would have something to do with them again, so they could craft and enable and survive. If everyone else refused, if they couldn’t budge, if they were even more eroded and ridiculous than he, then the fiend would do everything himself. He’d bear the weight, for his shoulders were broad, for his chest was wide, and his determination was everlasting, eternal, and corrupt.
 
The Reaper chiseled his way through the lands, a savage, a belligerent piece of maneuvering, unwinding chaos, splitting through fields and meadows without delaying his process, without seguing his movements into other notions and sentiments. The beast was guided by his own boldness, by his own audacity, by the way in which they’d been forced to live, all monster, all demonic, all Mephistophelean; swaying towards nothing and no one. Deimos served his family, his kin, his patriots even when they couldn’t bother to listen, even when they couldn’t pull their heads out of their own backsides, even when they were starved for friction and annihilation. His head would turn every so often to ensure the Weaver kept his brutal, barbaric pace, and he offered naught but the droves, the harshness, of silence, too irritated, too annoyed with his own herd to face one of the cheerier ones (even if he’d done naught wrong, was not one of the morons spouting and shooting insults).
 
When they finally clambered and met sand, the bestial Lord stared deep into the regions of draconic land, remembering all the times he’d settled there – for war, for allegiances, for nothing. The terrain was so unlike his own – scorching and hot, maiming and smoldering, but he endured, for that was what he’d always done, all rock, all rubble, all stone and impassiveness. His head lifted, ushered one bellow, and then drew back into the hushed layers of his predacious, iniquitous stance; not here for torment, for terror, for tyranny, but to ensure he kept his oaths. 

[Crafting trade times? ;D Please let Johnny post first. I also tagged both crafters, but feel free to bring in whomever. ^_^] 

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