The Reaper had learned to detest herd meetings. Besides the lengthy discourse, the endless tirades, and the notion that he’d have to endure more public interaction, there was always shame associated with it. There were cretins and fiends in their midst whom he somehow always managed to disappoint, who shirked and snickered, who slithered and detested, who found failure where he’d attempted something great. In the end, he was simply tired of letting down the chilling temples and the overbearing walls, the acerbic minstrels and the unrelenting guardians. The Lord didn’t want his world left wanting, left yearning, left craving and relishing for a taste, a nuance, a speculation of substance they could’ve savored, had he not been so flawed. There was always the sentiments that he wouldn’t be good enough, that his throne was in disrepair, that he tripped more than he triumphed.

But the beast could only give them what he was – a ferocious, unwinding, ravenous force of will and danger, of treachery and deception, of ruin and desecration. He was mutiny and depravity, abhorrence and upheaval, dedication and loyalty. But he was also determination, steel fortitude, arms and munitions and death strung from the rafters of his ardent, ruthless appeal; and where he faltered, where he stumbled, he examined the pitfalls, the holes, and the snares he’d fallen within. The Lord hoped, in some small measure of his depraved, decrepit heart, that he’d managed to secure ties and lines the rest of his brethren could be proud of, could sink their teeth into and be content with the knowledge of their safety, of their sanctuary, of their sanctity. They, the compatriots, the friends, the foes, the allies on this great, forsaken land, were truly the only things he had – and he guarded it, refined it, honed it to the best of his abilities.

He answered Hotaru’s beckoning, the call to their regime, as an unfurling predator. His features were refined in nonchalance, reticence, and apathy, his movements were coiled strength and tenacious virility; but underneath it all, in the dark impressions of his nefarious whims, he was tense, taut, mired and moored in chaotic apprehension. The demon recalled every moment of the last meeting, how it’d blown, ricocheted, sparked, and sizzled into absolute pandemonium, like a mob foaming at the mouth, like a crowd stampeding over its latest, sighted victim, and how he’d tried to subdue the mass of their disappointment, the outcries of their rage. Was it doomed to happen again?

Couldn’t they have one meeting of the minds, of these rapacious, clever, soulless wiles, without snapping at each other’s throats?

The Basin was greater than the sum of all her hysteria, noise, and riotous din. The Basin was strength and perseverance. The Basin was persistence and power. The King believed that – and no matter the dread clawing at his bones, at his sinew, at his joints, he still managed to arrive at Hotaru’s side.

Yet, where he would’ve begun, trumpeting to the troops, summoning the rest of the wanderers and loyalists, his stare narrowed, pinpointing solely on the bloodied figure of the Queen. The ridges of his brow furrowed into brief, violent alarm (who had done such a thing to her and why and how quickly would she like them hunted and bludgeoned?), and his voice dropped into a solidified, nearly inaudible whisper, close and quiet, discontent and disturbed. “What happened?” The pernicious promise, offer, of vengeance pervaded along the entity of his cool, monstrous grace, a cretin eager to conquer, ready to defend one of his own. Then, before any began to arrive, he settled back into his insouciant demeanor, arranging a steady, nonplussed eye quickly (but not in his mind – a rebellious stance of queries and questions volleying for rights of pursuit and persuasion), longing for answers but understanding it was neither the time nor the place.

Instead, he turned to address those uncoiling from the ruins, from the caverns, from the wide, expansive, snowy thresholds, and drummed out the shambles of what he had to say. “We still hold armistices with the Dragon’s Throat and the World’s Edge. Through these ceasefires, we are hoping to establish more trade with crafters. Soon, our Weavers will journey with us to see what the other herds require, and perhaps we may gain materials necessary for the greenhouse and prison.” He nodded towards Johnny and his group, though didn’t settle or stray too long on the ivory and crimson hued stag; segmenting his eyes upon the sentinels – the next subject to be breached. “Due to Ulrik’s departure, the sentinels are no longer in use. Per a recent meeting with our God, we will be interacting with a pack of wolves, and may, in time, learn and utilize them as protectors.” His speech seemed endless and his mouth was growing tired – already irked and irritated by the bout of news flowing from his lips, but there was so much to add, so much to tell them (because he wanted them safe, he wanted them secure). “There are other threats. A black and white Pegasus, Gull, has stolen items and attacked several of our own. Be wary.” And once that prison was finished, once the cell walls were back in place…ah, how satisfying it would be to watch the feathers wilt and the plumes fade and all the fiend’s dreams die between cold, metallic barriers. Then, finally, the words seemed nearly at an end – but his stare solidified solely on one other being (the little one draped in blue; who reminded him of oceans and shells and gulls). “We would also like to honor Tiamat as a Time Mender for her dedication and skills.”

The beast loosened a sigh, a breath, he wasn’t aware he’d been holding, and addressed his crowd, his patriots, his favored brethren, to their questions, wants, and necessities. “What are your concerns or needs?”