A beast, a demon, an infidel, a cretin on the rock and rubble, Lucifer’s sword thrust into reality, his ambitions had always been for power, for might, for decadence, for great, grand licentiousness – but the world always tilted, always changed, always eroded the best laid plans. So he’d been kept to tending armistices and alliances, so he’d been herded into the stream of peace and repose for the sake of his comrades, patriots, and munitions; and no matter how bitter, how rancorous, the notion tasted, the Reaper still chiseled it within his brow, across his membrane, into the fathoms of his Machiavellian schemes. Too many had disappeared, too many had wandered, too many had simply vanished for him to believe in their rigid, cold, hard, unyielding strength; they had to be built up again, layer by layer, enamel by enamel. There was no glory in loss or weakness, in fragility or feebleness, so while they strived for rigor, for balance, he had to draw and sketch himself anew too – and it was so hard to be someone other than the choking, stifling, all-consuming Reaper, with his rapier extended and his soullessness scorching, sliding, smoldering. When he wanted to do naught more than thrust his blade into an enemy’s heart, when he wanted naught but the extermination of a foe, he had to maintain patience and regard. When he craved anarchy, when he yearned for rebellion, when he desired and longed and coveted the arts of sedition, insurrection, and bold, intrepid war, the world told him no. Nothing would come of it but ruin and devastation, his herd in tatters, his kingdom a mess, his throne toppled and cracked and decimated. It wasn’t what the sovereignty needed – and no matter what he’d twisted and tethered himself to, the selfish notions had to be contorted into another region of his barbaric, sinister soul. The devil had to alter, had to morph, had to change to be of any benefit to his people.
 
A result of his slow erosion arrived at their borders: all fire, all embers, all strength and power and distinction. But it wasn’t Gaucho’s home, and he seemed to recognize the sentiments of another world, another empire, where his domination wasn’t truly supreme; and there the northern King arrived, molded and melded and modeled into the horizon. A wandering shadow, a pernicious monster, a titan of the ice and rime, a beacon of the chill and the glaciers and the cold, impenetrable walls gazed at the Pegasus from beside the towering sentinels. He tilted his head a fraction, as if to proclaim, ensure, he was not all statue, not all marble and stone, minute movements and motions reflecting in his nonchalant, distant, indifferent features. The beast didn’t mention the late season, the turn of Tallsun and how it’d already fallen to Orangemoon before the promised meeting; he was only regarding the extension of an oath now fulfilled. He released a singular bow, a bob of the head, a recognition of masters meeting masters, a convergence of kings, jaw unhinging for a few moments to notch the fringes of his home with cool detachment. “Gaucho – come in.” The beast’s great skull, a sword, a shield, extended towards the grand valley already emblazoned with snow, narrowing his eyes in speculation, in inquiry, but voicing none – because he truly wondered if any of his actions prior to this meeting had done his empire a favor – or if he was going to be the one laying them in the dust all over again. 

  Poised nonchalance and callous deviations – were he in another time, another place, another motion, this meeting likely wouldn’t have existed. In Isilme, they would’ve been at each other’s throats, daggers drawn, swords bared, hatred and animosity unraveling, spiraling in decadent, ferocious possession. His father would have spit and foamed and carved every scrupulous, fractious motion, his mother would have stood in her cold, ruthless animosity, and he wondered what either would think of him now – so altered, so twisted, so consumed by the notion of saving his herd, he’d turned his back on oaths, on assurances, on plagues, and on abhorrence. But the beast didn’t lower his head and ponder it into the void, didn’t ask his parents resting amongst some other wretched earth for their forgiveness (those moments would come on his deathbed, his descent into hell, or some other otherworldly nuances; when the earth went black and he was left with only his demons, answering to all of those vehement days and those yet to come). The beast, the infidel, the demon stared into the midst and trappings of his icy kingdom, craving all the resolution, all the determination, to not falter and lay them at someone else’s fire, someone else’s mercy. The weight of his chilling gaze was taken and snagged by the mountains, by the peaks, by the shell of palisades and cliffs – it was a good, grand thing his shoulders were used to bearing such cumbersome loads, such ruffian hymns and hums, such overwhelming, boundless endeavors, because some days the parcels were heavy and indiscernible burdens. When he was younger, he would have swayed under their temptation, under their visage, under their arches and pedestals, laid out arms and rebellion, sedition and upheaval, just for the taste, the touch, the notions of chaos and bedlam; but now he knew what it meant to be tangled in the haughty wake, and had no use for it now. In some augured sway, in some unwritten future, perhaps, but the present was too imminent, too shadowed, too tense and discordant to arrant death and melee.
 
He didn’t care if the Wildfire was late. There were few things he truly cared about at all, a short list, a meager inventory: family, friends, and his herd. Gaucho hadn’t harmed any, just taken his time. The world was constantly craving and summoning and scattering them to the four corners; had it been his turn to arrive at someone’s gates, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve been expedient either. It was no bother. His silence said as much.
 
The heathen waited, still monstrous, still pernicious, still garbed and draped and veiled in the constant, puissant air of devilry and defiance, but his reticent brow roamed to study the Pegasus who’d entered his home, who’d willingly entered an icy, chilling lair. How much had changed and altered. He almost snorted, almost chuckled, almost mustered the smallest of smiles for the way life morphed, but the notion died, and his ears became the only moving portion of him. “The Basin is cured.” He nodded, casting away the stone countenance, pondering over the wiles, the nature, the scheme and fold of this meeting. But when nothing else came to pass, for both of them seemed strikingly awful at discourse and discussions, considerations and dialogue (even this seemed laughable), he proffered an arch to his brow, a twist in his calculating mind. “We have had a pest lately.” The act, the mere thought, of breaking every bone in the stranger’s body was a delightful change from the monotony of wandering, guarding, and conniving; soon, that particular Pegasus would have a history with the Basin as well. “A gray and white Pegasus. Do you know of him?”

  The Reaper was easily led by hate. It incensed him in clear, precise moments and unwound him into a vicious, vehement haze. It spiraled and concocted and conducted his movements with an appalling simplicity; as if he’d been carved by wrath, sculpted by malice, traced and sketched and drawn by contempt. It haunted his thoughts until they drummed with Machiavellian schemes, until they hummed and crooned and contorted ferocious entanglements and snares. It weighed on his shoulders and spiraled through his muscles, sinew, veins, poignant and haunting, indignant and controlling, rushing, plunging, and annihilating the few sentiments of peace and virtue he had to proffer. Gaucho’s words were enough to spark the abhorrent, abominable rationale within his skull, and his eyes brewed with it, the toxic, venomous, poisonous indulgence of a man, of a beast, of a devil bent and swayed by immorality and iniquity, by fury and vexation. His ears pricked, his stare watched, as the Pegasus informed him of all the layers and lacquer behind the history of this Gull - who’d been more than just a fiend intending to cut apart one of his own, who’d been more than a nuisance fluttering and flying above the grounds, taking and absconding and grinning from ear to ear. He didn’t like their kind, the brutal, sadistic swords and horns, the descendants of Cinnoru, he didn’t give in, he didn’t care about challenges or words…
 
Which meant violence, ruin, and punishment would be the answer.
 
The notion almost made him smile.
 
“Thank you for the information,” he breathed, barbaric and twisted, as if the Wildfire had given him all the ammunition he required. “He will be dealt with.” If the beast wasn’t part of the Throat, wasn’t enamored or caught in the Edge’s tethers, the greater chance of him being an Outcast, free for the taking, for the bludgeoning, for the mauling, was increased. Their dungeons, once rebuilt, would be a perfect place for a flying fool, shackled and tethered and behind dark, icy walls, where he could rot away, feathers plucked off one by one. Maybe even the tent could be used, where no one would be able to hear the sounds of his screams.
 
His thoughts required shifting, away from domination and upheaval, since Gaucho had likely come with a purpose beyond informing the Reaper of inept fools cutting their way to eventual disaster. They’d met before to offer and bestow the reformed notions of alliance, without the Forsaken and her methods, and the Wildfire had remained silent on the issue. The present appeared to be the turning point, slithering either this way or that – and the shadowed King, with his reticent airs and his nonchalant exterior, still managed to hope his efforts weren’t about to be spurned or declined. He still had a herd to protect and guard. The words coiled past his throat and out into the cold air, eyes centered squarely upon the other great brute; titans gathered before rapacious motions and sinister designs. “Have you reached a decision on the proposed armistice?”

   The world toiled and altered in intriguing, interesting ways. Perhaps the trials and tribulations of warfare had snagged and sculpted them in strange, morphed channels: still muscled, still hone for battle, still raging and defiant; but for more pressing priorities, like their herds. Though Deimos could still gladly give himself away to bloodshed (because it was chaotic, because it ravenous and clawing and tempestuous and it made each devilish contortion of his frame all the more satisfying), he didn’t saunter down into canals and avenues and trails led by Plague efforts or motives. His passion had been invested and contorted into the whims of the nefarious, chilling mountains; he christened cold-blooded decisions, he consecrated calculating abominations, he wove the wishes and foundations of an immoral, licentious world – and it seemed Gaucho continued to do the same. He wasn’t going to bend or throw his hot, unwavering sands into the midst of invasions, crusades, or campaigns without reasoning. The tactics and stipulations made sense, and it could’ve been far worse. The Basin could’ve been denied anything and everything, left to wonder and ponder at the mistakes and flaws and defects in their (his) regime. For now, he would snatch and take what had been offered and bestowed, and not look away with audacity or dissent. There were no seditious ploys or crafty, cunning snarls threaded through his features; just the bold intentions of a beast coiled on his throne, pleased, satisfied, gratified, and content with the parcels of gold and silver lain at his feet (and wouldn’t he have liked to rub it in the Forsaken’s face – that he’d been able to secure two alliances on his own, without simpering or smiling or cooing at their heels). The Lord’s eyes pinpointed directly into the Wildfire’s, and his skull brandished a solid, stoic nod, mouth parting to agree to the proposed treaty. “The Basin accepts, and will hold your terms as our own.” Though who was more likely to join the other in violence and vehemence? Who was more likely to bound towards a restless, agonizing cause? It all depended on the outcomes, on the stratagems, on the ploys and what ifs and benefits towards one or the other. There were too many possibilities to weigh, too many nuances to decipher, too many monsters left wandering out on moors and fields. If a day ever came when war was imminent, where trumpets resounded and bedlam flared and munitions howled…the proposals and war contracts alone would be engrossing. But he didn’t know the future like their God of Time, and the Reaper could only finesse his dark, brooding determination and resolution for what tomorrow would bring. The infidel continued amidst his pondering, gaze never faltering, never straying; strength brewed, endowed, and constant. “Inform us if you require anything from our crafters or healers.”