Business transactions, payments and plans, maneuvered, molded, shaped and contorted; a conniving, calculating mind sharpened at the interlude and opportunity. Deimos’ curiosity was further kindled and instigated, enlightened and intrigued, and while his machinations whirred and brewed, he narrowed his stare in quiet, unsaid speculation. What did the Throat desire from them? What need did they have of spools, of cloth, of thread, of strands of silk and lace? And then came the more noteworthy figure, for this was to be of equal measures: what could they acquire from them? Portions and pieces of metal, wrapped in cold, hard distinction: the behemoth’s gaze traveled to the sentinel on the horizon, the dissonant sheen, the glinting threats, the heightened awareness of anarchy and protection should they command it, and its unfinished half-brother, awaiting excavation and deliberation. It continued on, landing upon the shaking, trembling Tandavi, who despite her best efforts still managed to have a distinction of terror floating past her stalwart stance (and he didn’t know whether to commend her efforts or mock them, so he committed neither). His piercing stare narrowed for a fraction of moments, because she looked painfully familiar, but he couldn’t wile away, piece together, where he’d seen her before. The sentiments were disregarded and dismissed at another Throat member, then Rhiannon’s approach, which he was all the more grateful for – she’d have far more intellect towards the engineering aspects of their pending conversation. He gave her a brief, curt nod, and resumed his intimidating stance of menacing, sinister junctures, possessed of behemoth composure and infidel reveries: a guard for his castle, a sword for his sovereign. Tones were succinct, concise, and condensed, drummed from heathen raptures and furtive whims. “The Basin is well.” Not a lie, for they still continued thriving along the icy sculptures and the frigid caverns, potent and pernicious, awaiting opportunities to snag anarchy and make it their own once again. It would take time, diligence, and perseverance; something their realm had in spades. For now, they’d dabble in trades, composing and whittling down frayed edges and dismal fringes, filling in gaps and closing in on their puissant capabilities. Longing to ensure their deal could be completed, as he had no intentions of pressing a promise they’d be incapable of carrying (then the Basin would be empty-handed, and he preferred them gleaming and powerful, not discarded and forgotten), he proffered another query. “What do you need crafted?”


[Happy 300th. :D]