He held a distinct talent for listening, for calculating, for maintaining his vigilance and examining the world around him – ears pricked, attending to the formidable whims of the earth or the capricious blood spilled and splashed across the murky grounds. He gave into the nuances and notions of a land from far beyond – the Rift - and it sounded so eerily similar to Isilme and all its foundations, all its heartfelt crescendos, that a spark of wistfulness nestled itself between the cracks of his nefarious, ugly, blackened heart. But the Reaper didn’t grant it a voice either, despite its desperate, poignant etches and sketches, of a life, of a time, far beyond the channels of mountain valleys and caverns and glaciers, where his father reigned and war was great and grand and hate was not so uncommon. It clung inside him, withering and decaying, defiantly scratching down the length of his chest and the coil of his muscles, reminding in all its bitter, rancorous barbs, of what could have been, what should have been, and the ways in which the earth always intended to leave him behind. The only thing he proffered through the haze, as Ming Yue wove her story of magnificence, opulence, and then decadence, was a note of more inquiries, more notions, more curiosities entrenched from the gallows of faults, flaws, and fissures. “What changed?” Had it too become encased in shadows, like Isilme, too tainted, too poisoned, too lethal, taking and destroying, ripping and maiming, until they were forced to leave? Until they had to abandon everything they’d tried so desperately to achieve? How much had she lost in the aftermath? What did she think to gain?
 
Therein, the King’s question became answered simultaneously: of newness, of foreign steps treading upon unknown soil, of a life changed and altered by the strange, fascinating swing of events. His voice, keen and blunt and invoked by candor, crossed amongst the throng, diligent, resolute, determined – she could easily play a part in their world. “You are welcome to stay.” And the boy too chimed in, echoing over the layers and days spent inviting and beguiling others to live and work amongst the frozen walls; his eyes glanced towards the youth again, smirking and proud, a true combination of his parents. The Lord was glad to have him there, a part, a hint of yesteryears and a reminder of mistakes to be mended, powerful, strong, and stalwart, ready to command and leap where his mother once reigned and where his father once tinkered. By habit, he glanced towards the sentinels, cold, metallic, and decrepit, shifting from the lack of maintenance, settling into the soil, like remnants of the giants that used to walk amongst their chilling earth; inspiring horror, terror, and tyranny.
 
What did they inspire now? What did he invoke and encourage?
 
He tried to ignore the bitter tempest waning against his skull, focusing his attention back towards the discussion of where the femme could go, what she could do, how she could slay ignorance and wander amongst the layers of brutality and villainy. “You have many options. We have thieves, menders, soldiers, philosophers, and engineers.” He paused, a phantom of the warrior flank, a beast made and christened by weaponry and treachery, treading where he felt the most uncomfortable and the most ashamed; bearing a heavy crown. “You do not have to decide now. You may discuss with those holding such ranks.”