They were not left alone for long – on wings, on fire, on embers and ash, Gaucho arrived before them, and the silent, brooding wake of Deimos was forced to incline his head in a bow; respectful, not conniving, not irreverent, but a matching of regard and dominion. Where the Reaper cast his stony wares into the fields of ice, Gaucho brandished his swords amongst the dunes – shifting, elemental bravados and torrents. He melded his composure, he contorted his cool, detached oeuvres into his features, ran them one by one through the stoic, nonchalant enterprise, not revealing his hesitance, the unknown, tempestuous nature of conversation and consul. He was equipped for war, for bloodshed, for savagery, for bludgeons and massacres, and had never been pulled into stately affairs (except perhaps when he was a General, and even then he blundered and frowned and attempted to slink away). The cretin would have preferred to stand in the echoes of silence, but it would have done him no good. He would have been just as useless, just as pathetic standing amidst the rimed gallows of his own home. How to start? Where to begin? The Throat’s Lord didn’t aid in their interval, and the uncomfortable hindrance of his own tongue, of his own deficiencies, wove a string of sinful wavers past his callous invocations and indifferent shield. Instead of brandishing their pursuits, he matched the tone of the other sovereign, melding only a singular word into the sandy shoal. “Gaucho.”

Luckily, Hotaru had all the powers of persuasion, all the potential and prowess of cajolery, inveiglement, and convincing. The winter King found himself watching and listening to her words, coaxed and enticed, ears pricked as one of the few signs that he truly wasn’t a stone fixture or a marbled chassis (and if his gaze flung to her as grateful, then she could rest easy with the respect, with the esteem and admiration he held of all her strengths – the art of conversation, the painted strokes of discourse). She spoke of their gifts, and his eyes clipped over to the canvases notched on Ulrik’s spine, woven quickly, rapidly, a display of his skill and talents, and then lurking, luring, into their tangible oaths and assurances. A continued armistice, a persisting ceasefire, a persevering modicum of peace and repose, were amongst the offerings; an accord few had ever been granted from their glacial hills and Siberian wake. But was it wanted again? Had they muddled in the breeches of silence? Had another tried to blast their way through all the promises and creeds? And if their idle contract wasn’t renewed – what then?

Ophelia’s fierce, fractious words bellowed along his mind, of beasts from the desert who could rip them apart, who could beat them, who could annihilate them, who could triumph over snow, glaciers, and caverns – and the determined, stubborn, tenacious portion of him borne from the waves of Isilme and the tides of moonlit decadence clenched tightly through his jaw.

He wouldn’t allow it – one way or another.

The Reaper tried to embody more than just unholy death and the rancorous persecution of virtue and insurrection; casting his piercing stare back towards the winged leader, strong and serious, a blast of chill radiating from their home so many miles away. He sank into the predilections of dialogue and exchange, even when the shadows beckoned for him to slink back into their confines, even when the rattling of disorder clung to his structure. He was more than his weaknesses, more than his flaws. He intended to rise, over and over again, even amidst his most deficient point. “We would also like to extend our gratitude towards the armor your herd bestowed.” The monster paused, searching, seeking, something else to add to the well-established wishes Hotaru had already prospered and provided. "We wish to extend more trading opportunities between crafters and engineers." What if they’d lacked in some regard? Was this the opportunity to weave it back together? Or were they already too late, the stones cast, the water murky? The rancorous wrath towards his own failings pressed and stabbed, lacerated and contorted, bled into his mind in a fervent, ferocious throng. I will not fail my herd. “Is there any way we could aid you further?”

[Skipping over Tamme because I know she's a busy bee. <33]

The prickle of irritation settled along his spine and coiled rampantly through his chest, whittling at his veins until they were a scorching length of rancor and ire. It was a thick current of fire and indignation, poised and curling along the sanction of his bones, of his marrow, of his nefarious soul, moored amongst the callous stones and the sinister monoliths - annoyed and dismayed at how the discourse was embarking. Gaucho did not prefer to dwell on the matters of herd life or the importance of trade, but on the ridiculous, keen dramatics of the Forsaken and her quest for theatrics. Any remaining thread of respect the Reaper held for Ophelia was severed as the Wildfire spoke of how she’d come to him, likely ranting and raving, behaving in the annals of petulance, feeding on the frenzy of being refused by Deimos. He wouldn’t have cared about her ridiculous intentions, her inept squalls, her eternal commotions and disturbances, had it not impacted his herd so wickedly now. Instead of triumphing in the potential the Basin and Throat held together, Gaucho chose to wax poetical on friends, dig deeper into skewed, scarred relationships, heighten the wayward pedestals, and then highlight how they’d fallen. He poked and prodded at choices the monster had made, and while Deimos didn’t inquire or judge as to why the Throat was separated from their threshold, why only some were selected to join them across the bridge, how Gaucho had managed to have it built, they were kindled and instigated into the conversation of Ophelia and all her manifestations. Perhaps the most infuriating portion of the gathering was that the demon had been forced to accommodate to the whims of companions and confidants, where he so wearily failed time and time again. If the entire thing came to shambles and ruin, he only had himself to blame.
 
He listened to Hotaru, gifted in the art of diatribes and asp positions, toiling away at the cover of his nonchalance, fixating his torment, his frustration, into the same indifferent pose across his features. He didn’t dare grind his ivories or tighten his jaw, hastening only the softest of movements with his ears, catching the rosy mare’s words and wishing there were some way he could help, not hinder, the situation. When it was his turn, he breathed a cool, chilling wave of discord, permitted it to flow away from his presence, from his skull, to alleviate the overwhelming sense of wrath and contempt. The beast was a fixture, a portrait, of control and composure, even as his scathing sentiments threatened to unravel. The puncturing slate of his eyes slid towards Gaucho, and the roughened barbs of his tones conjured their required piece. “The Forsaken and I do not have a good history.” He remembered that day, that time, that place, as if it were yesterday, haunting the Edge borders, warning her to leave, and when she wouldn’t, coming so close, so very, very close, to eliminating her from the earth altogether. But instead of keeping it furtive, secretive, and to himself, he played the cards he had, aching to keep the ties of sand and ice together for the sake of his empire. “When we were a part of the Edge, she trespassed. She was warned to leave, and refused. I nearly killed her.” He continued, feeling the flicker of exasperation nestle into his words, until another steely breath shoved them aside. “So years later, when she was named by the God of Time as our new Lady, I was skeptical. However, she proved to be a resilient, commendable leader.” He warranted and proffered her merits, her efforts, despite the strife, despite the hate, the malice, and the discontent – she’d earned it all, provided them with heaping amounts of triumph and victory. The conclusion of the saga, however, had come at a crashing, wailing, ludicrous end. “After the successful invasion, she told me she was leaving for personal reasons. She offered to assist in choosing a replacement – but I declined, informing her what the Basin did was no longer her concern.” He paused, twisting his cranium to glance over to Hotaru, then swiftly turned it back to Gaucho. “I do not honor the abandonment of one’s herd.”