It was happening again. Building, brewing, brimming, and foaming until it funneled over and ran across his icy grounds: absolute chaos. The Reaper was a constant consumer of vitriol, of ferocity, of bedlam, but to see it unravel before his herd time and time again had been so utterly vexing, so terribly unwinding. They were more than this, all feral vehemence and rude distinctions. They were more than opinionated fiends firing assaults and munitions at each other. He’d seen them at their best, and he’d seen them at their worst, and it was consuming the layers and lacquer by which they’d all gathered. It was all so ridiculous – one pompous load of energy conquering over villainous exploits, gesturing and unraveling until there was nothing left to be salvaged. Gone were the well-earned promotions. Gone were the seeds of renewal. They simply imploded on themselves, and the King’s irritation, exasperation, had enough of the childish antics and the lingering ineptitude. Individuals were allowed and permitted their opinions; disrespect and intolerance was not.

“Enough.” His voice, devoid of any emotion except treachery, except sinister arts and nefarious deeds and the ability to cull them all into broken, decrepit things, cut through the tension like a knife. The depths of his menace, the lingering bouts of composure, were riddled along his insouciant face – because he’d never been so disappointed in the state of his empire. Had they all been reduced to children over night? Foals were better behaved than the lot screaming, screeching, and bellowing below him. Why did every meeting have to develop into a boiling, searing roll of contempt, wrath, and enmity? They were part of the same plans, the same dreams, the same ambitions - yet here they all became buried and consumed by the ridiculousness of molten mouths and stupid antics. His gaze sparked, sizzled, simmered, smoldered in their fine bits of rage, glowering upon the oafs who’d lit all the fuses and sparked all the nonsense. “Why is it so difficult to be civil to one another? We are all part of the same herd. You work together. You patrol together. You protect each other. If you cannot maintain respect, then leave. I will speak to you once our meeting has concluded.” The length of his savage gaze held upon Mortuus Nox and Albrecht, leering for a few moments upon Ki’irha and Sialia, before rendering one more command.

“Control yourselves.”

Then, he gave in to their questions (except for Thranduil, for he truly didn’t know where the gilded one had ended up), because he’d asked for them – he’d relented for their concerns, for their wants and needs, expecting considerations when all he’d received were frayed elements and acerbic cravings. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask again, if it only led to vehemence and stupidity.

“The God of Time has plans for our wolves. Perhaps you should wait until you proclaim judgment.” By all means, if they yearned to disrespect the deity within his own walls, let their hides be zapped and fried, electrocuted or thrown into another realm. The predators stalking their doors had been a notion of protection (for them - everything they ever did was for this spoiled lot of stubborn, vicious brats). But he kept explaining, kept relinquishing what they wanted to hear, when all he yearned to do was bury his head in the snow. “I have offered Ulrik his metal. It is only fair. They were his creation. He has yet to come claim them.” The King paused, glowering, tired of it all. “If he does not, then we may use them for other means.” His skull tilted towards Albrecht, the most outspoken about the sentinels. “Do you have magic to repair them? Do any of us?” The Lord’s eyes narrowed, bending back along to Nox and all his proclamations. The healer would not be going anywhere if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “The Crafters will be accompanying myself or Hotaru to the other herds come Birdsong on trade missions. The original intention was to be granted metal and glass for our greenhouse and prison. If there is any metal left, perhaps we may apply them to the sentinels.” And only if anyone had the incantations to repair them.

He sighed, and wished to do naught more than leave or destroy.