The Reaper couldn’t tell if the Engineer was haggard, drained, careworn, or unaffected by the miserable days preceding; either by his own inexperience in concerning feelings and sentiments, or because he never spent enough time around Ulrik to interpret all his motions, all his movements, all the tightly, woven notions. He was nearly tempted to ask, to question the ruminations of one of his fellow refugees, but the notion, the queries, simmered quietly behind his teeth, broiling and brewing, but incapable of being unleashed into the world. Perhaps it was safer to remain in the stoic abyss, in the reticent void, in the aloof, indifferent gazes; where nothing could touch, where nothing could control, where nothing could stroke over the fibers of living, of breathing, of existing – only composure, only steel, only impassivity. Wasn’t it easier to remain in the flames, in the fires, of unattainability? Did the Weaver even want to talk, want to discuss, the transpiring of death and damnation, the sinking of sin, the licentious grasp of immorality? Or was he simply escaping from the potential deluge, staying steadfast, out in the open, away from the locked gates of emotions and perils. But the back of his mind twitched, ghosted, writhed, in those haunting measures and gallows, wondering if he was truly as awful as Ophelia painted him, brushstroke by brushstroke, hue by hue, too nefarious, too sinister, too savage and insouciant to even care about someone, about something, he always promised to protect…

The silence loomed far too long, and the monster regained his rigid posture, his taut essence, glancing over Ulrik in a careful, poignant study, but not piercing, not harpooning, not puncturing over the drawn pelt or the careless, haphazard image. He performed a respectful nod, and adhered back to the situation for which he beckoned the fellow heathen. “The Dragon’s Throat recently granted us armor.” He paused, piecing and shaping together the words and phrases he intended to utilize, striking over them back and forth, threading through necessity – he’d never be a conversationalist, a siren’s song of sinuous secrets or canvases; his arts and opuses were more tied to the battlefields, but he presumed Ulrik would understand. Neither seemed to favor the oeuvre of discourse and dialogue. “We wish to bring them something in return.” Hopefully it’d be able to soften whatever blows were sure to be rendered. “Would you be capable of creating two canvases?” Perhaps the hot haze, the blunt heat, would be hindered, somewhat ineffectual, amidst the Throat keepers, resting amongst the shade of canvas.

@[Ulrik]