Drums of the decrepit beat a violent crescendo against his icy backdrop; he was the chilling wind and the serpentine boughs, the kindled essence of depravity and savagery, a wandering pierce of the underworld. When he breathed, he held notches of decay in his grasp, like a stark, cold, enveloping of finality, death, demise, eternally poised for the slaughter. He rejoined the outcrops of brutality in his vigilant, violent march across the grounds, patrolling, dividing, contemplating the ways in which he failed and the ways he could strive for more. The monster was too hardened to change entirely, he’d eroded and twisted and collapsed upon himself far too many times, but he was a carving of militia, mutiny, and malice, determination was woven deep into his bones and sculpted through his ribs. He’d twist and turn through the evening squalls and the depths of ruthlessness to bear everything the world flung at him (even when it hurt, even when it made him bleed, even when it crushed against his shoulders and barbed the tiny snippet of his nefarious, blackened heart), and then do it all over again. His herd was faltering, stumbling, flailing along in their rotten cores and disastrous tongues, spilling and spewing vitriol with nothing and no power to back it up – and he was so consumed with the madness of turning it around, with who to lock away and who to keep, that he nearly didn’t notice the scent curling across the icy aperture.
 
His head turned, skull entrenched like a predator, like a hunter, like a carnivore, eyes narrowed and studying, examining, the creature lingering beneath the Sentinels’ once mighty stare. Spring died around him, fronds curling along themselves in a remorseless scene of perishing, anguished beings; and he moved closer and closer still until he could trace the foundation of a memory to a face. Caleb, the winged beast who’d been let in because of the sword he carried on his brow, who somehow managed to escape from his wrath many times over, who disappeared and wandered and had nothing else to show for it. The Lord’s eyes, dangerous and alluring, twin pinnacles of disaster and torment, never quite stilled, sliding from the hound to the man who carried his companion, always calculating, always wondering, always orchestrating more ideas and notions. Instead of a greeting, instead of a fond, congratulatory welcome back into the scabbard of the chilling empire, he extended his vocals in one curt, blunt, keen venture. “What are you waiting for?”