The meeting ran smoothly, no theatrics, no stagecraft, no simpering coils, or plaintive outcries: arrangements and settlements easily transpired. He remained calm and composed, not threatened, not overwhelmed, chiseled and refined in the chilling, smoking collection of sand-travelers and rime-inhabitants, glancing over the party, the shivering girl who managed to conjure a backbone, the kind Sacre, the adjoining Ulrik who postured sarcasm but not treachery, not danger. Flags were needed, and his ears swiveled back and forth, catching the aligning words, picturing dune pennants and dry streamers waving on top of cliffs, nothing too out of the ordinary, naught to cause question or concern. For them, his puncturing gaze glanced towards the unfinished sentinels one last time, the ghosts and embers of power, of mystique, one day fully capable of administering potency and lethality upon those who dared to cross into their borders without consent. They’d be able to drive merciless rhythms and catastrophic enterprises, sully foolish endeavors and inept tactics with seamless ease, with demonstrative precision, and the Basiners would be able to sleep at night without constant patrolling, without unnecessary tribulations. At the heart, at the core, of his yearning, was the need to protect, was the demand to preserve, safeguard, and shelter his empire from the wake of so many who longed to conquer it (to skewer the Regime, who sauntered and slunk in the shadows, awakened by an open prison). The Reaper’s stare hastened from Throat being to another, granting a brief nod in agreement and acquiescence, a chilling coat of arms in his deep vocals registering, resounding in the Siberian vestiges. “That would be fine.” He paused, turning towards his Weavers, quirking one singular brow, for he’d offer his entails, but they had every right to bestow their own as well. A twisting stone fixture, the monster’s words harked back over the horizon, a friendly, amiable gesture towards the statues at their borders. “We would like more metal to finish our Sentinels.” Finalizing the task at hand could fall to the Weavers, the true merchants who knew how long the whims would take and how many hours they’d require. Their judgment on the matter would be far superior to his own, for his skills ranged from battle to silence, and neither seemed viable in the present exchange. “You may work out details with Rhiannon and Ulrik.” Attempting to be a bit more welcoming, taking the words of the Time God to his unattainable soul, he bestowed an actual approachable gesture behind the reticent features and the marble brow. “You are free to stay within the Basin while you wait.” He’d have to extend hospitality if they were to gain anything from the other empires, besides peace, besides repose, maybe a poignant thought he’d learned long ago from the GildedBlade and simply never presumed suitable to put into action. Perhaps they’d find what made the glacial kin and brethren so proud, so dominant, so superior; or merely wait around the borders, biding their time until they could escape the icy confines.