He had come to expect very little. The Reaper had been disappointed by his herd, the herd had been disappointed by him, and the rim of the mountain blew its chilling, damning wind day after day, night after night, never satisfied with the whole lot of them. He’d sown his soul into the very air, into each icy particle, into each cold, wintery hell, so every movement he made, every motion he possessed, every action he composed, was for the Basin, was for the summit, was for the peaks, the valleys, the caverns. He calculated and devoured, consumed and swallowed, beckoned and cajoled, became the shadowy spectacle of monster and demon, of marble, of weaponry, of swords and cutlasses come to life – wore machinations as they clicked and folded along his skull, as they whittled, as they carved, along his mind. A portion of him believed she may refuse, vanish off into the day like so many others had before her – reasoning beyond him, because he’d always stayed and never strayed, because loyalty burned a hole in his heart just like the rain had, just like death had, just like his muscle and joints and acrimony fused together to form his walking, withering carapace. Another sliver of his assessments perceived she’d grasp and clench at the chance, at the notoriety, at the opportunity to gain a title for herself (Weaver her placard, her namesake would say, for weaving with a God’s power, with a deity’s blessing, must’ve given them all a thrill), and then possibly do nothing with it, be one more face stretching across the horizon and emblazoning it with naught.
 
Instead, however, she seemed…excited, ebullient, a small, eager smile adorning an enthusiastic claim, offering her sentiments, bestowing her thanks…
 
And he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. He watched her for a time, silence passing by in a ticking, quiet whirlwind, the Lord, the King, the stoic, impassive man standing amidst the uncertain storm he’d mired himself within. Thank you so much! she’d said, as if he’d given her anything and everything she’d ever craved, My efforts will only continue to expand!, as if she’d been rendered in pursuit, ambitious, clamoring over dreams. The beast nearly laughed, too shocked and stupefied and numbed by it all, because at least she was something different (not uttering hypocritical oaths, not spewing against all the plans they’d so carefully sketched, not screaming perilous endeavors simply because they could). He bowed his head, humbled for some reason, for he couldn’t remember a day where he’d been as ardent, as fervid as she (when it hadn’t been about violence, about stabbing, about massacring enemies or unraveling arts of chaos, when his sword hadn’t struck blows and lacerations and deep, vicious cuts). “Perhaps you are exactly what we need,” he said aloud, quiet and resolute, etched with a small smile along the corner of his lips, almost boyish, like he’d once been a child with passions and goals instead of a man tied by Lucifer’s strings.
 
Then she’d launched into her duties, immediately kindled and incensed, and the miniscule grin still remained, as if it was unsure of where to go or what to do. “You may consult with Johnny. We have recently begun trading with the World’s Edge and Dragon’s Throat. You may be needed to aid in their requests.”