Deimos held back a fierce, ferocious sneer, saving the expressions behind his taut, rigid, unyielding features, reticent, nonchalant, impassive, and wickedly, nefariously, depraved. The Lord listened to his fellow members, their questions, their queries, their inquisitive brows, all solidified and united in the notion of imbecile antics. Since when had the Basin become a tourist attraction? Was he supposed to allow and permit every outcast wander their icy sovereign, their wintry expanse, their frigid, wholesome tundra, simply because they wanted to? To satisfy their curiosity? To indulge their entitlement? To creep and slink and serpentine until their information gathering was fulfilled? The Reaper was no partaker in bestowing acts of kindness, generosity, or benevolence; there had to be a calculated reason, an edge, a purpose or motivation to anoint actions and meaning. He couldn’t fathom or find any incentive to honor the filly’s request; if he warranted one bumbling fool into their pathways, several more would all come trickling in, a monkey see, monkey do parade and cavalcade. They had enough projects, tasks, and skirmishes occupying their time, than to play babysitter to an ignorant babe, especially one held no blood ties to the empire. He narrowed his gaze, stared resolutely at the oddly-hued foal, briefly glaring at her wings, wondering how difficult it would be to pry them away from her body, how swift, how rapid, how quickly she could be torn and ripped to shreds, tossed off a barren cliff, by any of his brethren, thirsty kin eager and waiting. The moment passed, but the brutality still remained, sculpted in sinuous, arcane composition through his vocals, delivering the first blow to her wishes and dreams. “You will not always receive what you crave.” He leaned down, closer, a breathing, tangible phantom taken straight from the hollowed, hallowed abyss, a machine of war, a machination of avaricious plights, forming her one opportunity, her one chance, to barter for their sagacity. “We have no reason to grant your wishes. Honesty and beneficence will not bestow entry.” Only few and far between, like their Mender, could even survive on the ability to proffer the virtues, and as he glanced towards each of the gathered, he presumed none of them seized or possessed the skills. His brow arched, then furrowed into King deliberation, ghosting back towards the tiny fool, prospering a final declaration. “If we permit your access, what can you give us in return?” Your head?