A hollowed precipice and a hallowed weapon, striking out against the world, served as a wild, calloused figure, aloof and indifferent, casting stones on flickering, smoldering heels, perilous and immoral. He’d spent hours merely wandering his grounds, carving potency and persistence, domination and dominion, until bedlam crackled over his mind and he was left with more burning ambitions, more restless aspirations, more summonings crawling over the walls of pine and fir. His ears turned, twisted, listening to the vocals as they reverberated between boughs and corruption, pulsing, pervading; too persistent to be ignored. Wolfish, carnivorous rapture stained his movements until they were a blinding motion of calamitous fixtures and rogue endeavors, heeding one more call from the denizens of the borders, Machiavellian notions sculpting over the possibilities of the lone cretin dwelling upon the aperture – enemies rarely announced themselves, so an intruder remained unlikely. Could it be a member of an alliance, come to seek diplomacy and political manners (where he’d gnash his teeth, grin and bear the tenors of diatribes and conversation, lose pieces of his predacious, puissant noose)? Was it some segment of acrimony and strife, a member of another force, another kingdom, begging, aching, yearning to tell him of unholy, nefarious acts committed beyond their walls, and he was needed at the front (to seethe, to indulge, in chaos and decadence, spill the blood of the inept, of the weak, of the useless)? Was it a newcomer, flanked by their welcoming crew, hoping to be accepted into their masses, curious and strange, wondering of they should flee or if they should stay, grow strong and bestial in the shade of mountains?
 
Upon his approach, he received his answer – a maiden, painted in black and white, familiar yet not all at once. As he neared, forbidding and formidable, a barbaric twist and turn of swords come to life (never put away into a scabbard; always capable of slicing, slashing, and eradicating), he recognized her for what she used to be – smaller, a child once nestled in the heart of the Basin, running, laughing, and leaping with the rest of the youths, wild and carefree, burning bright, promising persistence and turmoil when they aged. But she’d disappeared, like so many others, and he’d just presumed the girl would be among the many who never returned – dead and decrepit, mesmerized by other flames, drawn apart and away, or simply wasted away, gone to somewhere too furtive, too specious, for anyone to find. She’d been polite and respectful the last time he’d seen her, and she remained in the same stead, branching out beneath the Sentinel instead of bombarding her way through, clinging to what she used to know. His features, usually stoic, reticent, stony and impassive, permitted one arch to his brow, delving into curiosity and speculation, eyes wandering in brief examination and scrutiny at the state of her figure. “You have returned, Athena.” The curt crackle of his vocals erupted, then faded away, gaze narrowing a fraction as he grew all the more still, brutal, capable of committing terror, ruin, and devastation in one feral command – but instead of obliteration, irritation, exasperation at her leaving, he proceeded with an inquiry. “Where have you been?”