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?”