The public eye was a disturbing place for his nefarious soul, but he couldn’t hide from its rattling chains or sneering smirks. Even when his deepest desires were only to flee towards isolation, down into the crypts and catacombs of an unknown cavern, his throne, his proclamations, his demands, and his fortitude to become something other than an ominous statue forced him back into his own personal hell. The Reaper watched from the sidelines, a twisting piece of ferocity clinging to the shadowed pine, glancing, studying, scrutinizing individuals he’d never known, he’d never seen, as they wandered into his denizen, into his sanctuary, and wondered what they would do, would see, would feel from the icy regions. Another portion of him, the one built on ferocity, on savagery, on the sinister aspects of demonic contortions, pondered if they were here to skulk and examine, if they would one day launch an attack on his people, or if they intended to assault them, here and now, before he could reach their flesh and flay them alive. He wandered closer on the last set of sentiments, eyes narrowed, incapable of closing off the way the earth died beneath him, the way his movements always seemed somewhat sinister, ghastly, dangerous, and treacherous, the way he stalked the grounds as if rooted to its very essence – all ice, all munitions, all callous, unholy disregard.
 
He listened too, moving his ears in various directions as greetings were called, as strangers were given names, as familiar companions flickered back into the horizon lights (and briefly, just briefly, he noted Haldir and raised his head to stare across the glacial plain, looking for Thranduil’s gilded hide), and as Tembovu wrapped himself around their Thief. The immediate will to leave was present – because he didn’t belong in the company of strangers, because he only cherished the brimstone, the ash, the soot of distortion and destruction, because he was a menace that few ever looked upon without disdain or discomfort. But the monster’s hooves refused to budge, and he wanted to laugh at the absurdity, wanted to ask his father if this was what he was supposed to be doing, wanted to cower and bow against the onslaught of the unknown and its bitter, rancorous taste. He did none of those things, and instead, settled beneath the flames and the bright hues, knowing full well he couldn’t embrace their heavenly auras or the dazzling sights, understanding his worth was in immorality and not in charitable functions (but somewhere, he hoped, someone was proud of him, for continuing, for trying, when he was so out of his element). “Welcome to the Basin,” his voice echoed amidst the throng, the song and dance he didn’t know the words or steps to. The deep, piercing slate of his stare wandered from occupant to occupant again, before rendering his necessary proclamations. “We recently held a recruiting contest in attempts to encourage others to join our herd.” The heathen paused again, trying to find the particular figure he needed from the hollows of strangers, but his gaze flickered back to the gilded form of her mother instead, a brow arched, a slight smile coiled in congratulations. “Our winner is Kiada, who should be honored for her attempts within the Threshold.”