The Reaper’s life had spun into a series of cycles. He protected, he scorched, he smoldered, he brooded, and then he wandered off into sovereign duties. The same thing fell day after day, night after night, so that little time was spent into restless depravities (but what he would’ve give for another battle, another taste of violence and vehemence, when his muscles contorted into bestial marches and his soul relished the vicious flavor of another entity consumed). For now, Deimos stoked the central lands, roaming away from hot, smoldering sands, not yet sculpting his way back towards his northern throne, spending his hours wiling away at commitments and convictions instead. Time spent away from the chilling mountains might make him appreciate them more upon his return, when their meeting’s din no longer echoed against the peaks’ backdrop, when the hollowed hackles of his member’s mouths no longer detested anything and everything they tried (stood for). While the tempestuous mountains hummed in his blood, while it pulled him into chilling nonchalance, while it built him from soldier to General to King, there were some moments where even the depths of its spirit got to him too.
 
Other lands crooned, growled, hissed in his blood too (unwavering sands touched by moonlit bliss, a herd, a family, of unicorns with stones and rocks and embers uniting their dark hearts; Isilme, it whispered in his heart, in his mind, when he dreamed of distant places, faraway worlds). The empire they approached now, brindled and surrounded, pervaded and invaded, by the swirl of mist and fog, always served to remind him of failure, of loss, of defeat. No matter how many times he entered its wares, a rush, a flood, of memories served to haunt him – so many ghosts, so many wraiths, so many phantoms of lost souls, who’d protected, who’d tried to ward off the Qian, and who, despite their attempts, despite their menace, had to flee into cliffs, valleys, and Steppes to ensure their survival.
 
But the King wouldn’t allow his recollections defeat his purpose. A portion of him glanced towards the ether and wondered if Mauja would appear (a tangible, whole ghost, but a specter all the same), then pushed it aside, understanding, knowing, the spotted stag no longer reigned. There was an ice mistress and an elephant, titan beast in his place – time had altered, changed things so abruptly, so swiftly, that the Reaper had never ensnared a chance to ask Mauja why (why had he given everything up, if he’d always wanted it so badly? If he’d finally snagged what had once been his?). It was too late now. Seasons had moved them all along, and there were reasons for arriving at the borders (not for reminiscing, he decided). Their herd had too many projects, too many whirlwind concoctions, to be given into stagnation.
 
Deimos checked behind him again to ensure Johnny and his obnoxious bird/dog combination had followed, then flicked his ears, his sights, back into the fog hollows. His mouth parted once, ensuing a bellow, asking for leaders, for crafters, to come. Hoping, somehow, someway, all the things he’d orchestrated would follow the right path, and that his actions hadn’t been a waste (like so many other, bitter, rancorous things).

[Crafting trades? :DD Please let Johnny post first! I also tagged Glaziers/crafters. ^_^]