The Reaper could spend an entire season locked up in his own regrets and rancor, chiseled away by the woven bitterness clouding over his thoughts, by the indignant traces of resolution he’d managed to draw. The next set of sketches were clear, were tangible, but drove him into weary persecutions and daunting tasks, and he would have yearned to press against violence, into vigilance, along heaps of disaster and ruin, then cling to ways and methods of inspiring loyalty and credence to not only the herd, the mountain tops, the tundra, but also to him. His father, and even his own son, had entrusted, had chimed, had echoed in the same thread, plucking at his void, at his indifference, at his nonchalance until clarity sparked and stared at his mask – and even then, he still had difficulty in surmising how to regard this newfound expedition. The beast preferred his shadows, his outcrops, his vast layers of the unknown and the desolate, because it was easier to hide than to interact, easier to plot than to care, easier to move pawns and play Machiavellian intrigue, than to wonder how and why once precious followers disappeared into the dust and dusk. Everything had simply come crashing down too little and too late. He’d festered and decayed and watched as those he’d considered comrades, companions, and friends become distant mirages, brief hallucinations, and scalding, stupid errors.
 
So he stretched away from his warren of caves, from his desolate, forsaken eaves, striking against the whispers of Birdsong and the whimsy of spring, staring across the pockets of melting snow and icicle abyss to watch and witness the coming of strangers and the anointed beneath the metallic gaze of the sentinels. Like a beguiling, alluring, intangible shadow against a backdrop of white, of danger, of power and prestige, he stared, a beast on the horizon and a savage on the loose, tied and tethered to unholy lands, to deceitful prowess, and to promises uttered towards his bloodline. He maneuvered slowly, stealthily, a predator seeking prey, a molten hunter lined with carnivore intent, crossing over paths and trails, massacring hopes and dreams and wishes – except for those of his herd. The colossus of death nestled nearby, eyes scrutinizing, examining the stranger, and the two who’d granted her passage, Mortuus Nox and the sea-girl, Tiamat. He obliged them each with a nod, a note of presence, a silent acknowledgment of their recruitment of one more soul, and wasn’t sure what else to bequeath them with (he didn’t bestow much beyond demise and fortitude and might, and the power of conversation was still eternally lost to him), instead choosing his words for the midnight-hued mare and her curled ears, vocals deep and foreboding. “Welcome to the Basin.” A pause, a snap, a tether pulled tight and taut, and he grew rigid, uncomfortable, constantly proceeding in the same way, in the same mannerism, drawn to what he understood and what he knew. How far to push, where to go, how to perceive and understand the convections of discourse were limited, and he nearly gnashed his teeth over the notions. Instead, the same chilling crescendo marked his words and sentiments. “What do you seek here?”

Akeldama – his ears pricked, swiveled, and listened to her ambitions, to the aspirations she carried – and they seemed brewed and steeped in secrets, in convolutions, in more than she was eager to share. He didn’t ask or plunder any further, regarding her sentiments and wishes through his scrutinizing, meticulous fold; knowing well of how the Basin’s familial veil ran – amidst strength, endurance, perserverance, and fortitude. They conquered and triumphed because they were a chord of tenacious tethers and belligerent wiles, conjured and entangled and shrouded in so many bestial splinters and savage endeavors, kept looped and coiled behind furtive lies and indifferent gestures. They were rock and rubble and ruin and tied so precariously to one another through domination and adherence; and where the constancy fell was at their weaker points, were amongst his flaws, his defects, his imperfections. When they were a unit, they were an incredible fighting force, a horde of beasts, monsters, and paragons to be reckoned with – and when they were drawn to a listless lull, perhaps they were even more forbidding and ruthless. If she was as desperate as her fleeting look indicated, maybe she’d stand a chance amongst their brigands and mutineers, along their revolutionaries and spies, clustered and masked and surrounded by barbarity, supremacy, and recoil.
 
Tiamat’s speech and gestures were welcome, a compassionate glance towards the rising peaks and the indifferent valleys, where the glacial rise gave away nothing and no one. Even Mortuus Nox offered his input, insisting she’d visit their Haruspex if she still hadn’t found a role to stay within. The Reaper’s cold stare fixated back upon the newcomer, and even then, he truly didn’t know what she yearned to be either. But, he’d still allot her the choice, the permission to remain in their stead, to find and discover where her heart twisted and laid. “You are welcome to stay, Akeldama.” He nodded towards both Basin members at their well-placed information, at their versed stead, far more capable of lending discourse than himself, grateful for their impact on the world before them. “There is no rush in pursuing your part within the herd. You may take your time and experience what the Basin has to offer.”