The Reaper valued growth and renewal – though he often looked as if he only eroded, changed, or altered himself every few years. He fixated on the ways in which power seethed and rippled, on how potential and prowess simmered and then fizzled, on when and where and why calculations failed or pulsed, maddening quandaries and enigmas slanting across a dark horizon. The fiend, the devil, Lucifer’s sword, the mountains’ cutlass, could have sculpted a homage to how he yearned, how he craved, how he wished the Basin could be more than it was now – stagnant and stone, endless and eternal, listless and lulling. He wanted it to rise and relish, to taste the notions of damnation and corruption, to coil amongst the monstrous and the defined, to waste away the weak and pathetic, to wreak and claw amongst havoc – be more than a whisper, be more than a forgotten, mercurial whim of chaos and ruin. But the monster had always known better than to merely sit by and wait for something to happen; he was a man of action, of eloquence by endeavors, of purpose and motives. It was foolish to believe the earth would hand anything over to anyone, as if they were entitled, claimed for persecution and might (No, he thought, We have to earn it all over again). The world wouldn’t turn and chisel its head for anyone, not for his deadly incantations, not for their sparring words, forked tongues or savage, demonic desires. Empires and sovereigns were moved and stirred by commitment, by pledges, by oaths that meant something beyond conniving words and phrases – and the King wasn’t about to let his kingdom, with all its brashness, with all its brutality, sink beneath a wave of nothingness.
 
The winter heathen, cloaked and garbed in his formal, nonchalant attire, maneuvered amidst the warming climate, skimming and stalking, hunting and plotting, following over trails of scents amongst the rocks and rubble. There was only intent, only measures, only ministrations galvanizing his frame, his nonchalant stare, his distant unease; moving along the threshold with layered, lacquered purpose, driven by his notions, by his ideas, by his cravings for their capability. He preyed on the vestiges of spring with its tender clamors of absolution, pouring his enmity, his acrimony, through their calm vectors, narrowing his deadly stare over bits and pieces of horizon until he found what he was looking for – the apprentice. The shape ahead was distinct, creamy and delicate, reminding him of broken, fragile things (and how even if she lived here, amongst the spaces and homes of ruffians, barbarians, and twisted, debauched souls, she’d be safe, because he protected his own). The infidel only remembered her briefly from days of sagacity and wisdom, of her nearness, protective nature over a child with wings, of her crucial study beneath Johnny’s strange nature and dutiful enterprise. “Eldala,” he called from the bottom of a knoll, precise and keen, beastly and demanding, a rattling command flowing from his frame without him saying another word. She was a necessity, a vital piece of their chiseled puzzle, a frame in which they could lay more foundations – because lord, they needed it desperately. 

[SURPRISE! ;D]

The moment passed by without wretched, unwinding strain or a belligerent atmosphere – the kind he’d come to expect lately – so his skull twisted a little to the left, a little to the right, arched an all encompassing perusal and study of the femme. He didn’t know of her strength or capabilities; most of them where roughened diamonds, he’d decided, either too gruff to see past the insouciant veneers and roughened escapades, or too meticulously hidden, all cloaks and daggers. The fact that she survived amongst their brooding winter, their scowling winds, their chilling, haunting eaves and secrets meant she’d likely last the years to come, spinning away at her threads, crafting Ariadne’s silk. She didn’t narrow her eyes at him, she didn’t spew vitriol or menace, she didn’t highlight the fatal flaws, the levels of weaknesses, or try to scale his impenetrable walls. The mare merely adhered to the summons, like a curious subject, waiting for the weight of his stare and the embodiment of his treachery (what did all the tales say of him now – the wretched, detached, immoral man, the demonic, barbaric Lord who said little?), the fall of his executioner’s ax, the descent of his iniquitous scythe?

The Reaper proffered none of those things today, simply remaining as chiseled, as sculpted, as fine as the devil’s pathways, always one step closer to his nefarious, immoral statues. He stood amidst the towering arches of mountains and valleys, a piece of the warped fabric and tapestries, a restless, devouring cretin who would have swallowed and consumed the world, given half the chance to snatch, to ensnare, to ravage. Instead of the clawing, rasping, dangerous raptures and reveries he usually punctured, harpooned, and lavished upon the scenery, the beast remained placid, composed, etched by Mephistophelean hands and quandaries, puzzling over the nature of where to begin and end. A gift, he wanted to grant to her – an offering, a providence, a place and pedestal for her to waltz upon, but words had never come easy to him (not like the battlefield, with its violent, villainous upheaval, with its swords, scabbards, rapiers, and cutlasses, with its war-torn blight and pestilence, bones bleached by the sun, bodies consumed by avaricious, mercenary tendencies). Compliments had never flowed effortlessly from his mouth. Bestowals were normally given in forms of tokens taken and absconded by someone who’d deserved all the wounds and lacerations they’d received. A man of war had a most difficult time securing the ability of discourse. But he tried, regardless, because no one could say he didn’t always put forth effort into alleviating his defects, nodding his head towards the crème-based girl in an obliging of respect, then raising his gaze, pinpointing and decisive, piercing and layered with too many unspeakable things. “Johnny will need assistance in the coming days,” the King’s jaws parted on a curt, keen, blunt edge, always poised for battle instead of dialogue. “Would you be willing to become our second Weaver?”

He wondered, just briefly, if she’d say no, and he’d be forced to ponder just how wickedly he managed to fail time and time again.

  He had come to expect very little. The Reaper had been disappointed by his herd, the herd had been disappointed by him, and the rim of the mountain blew its chilling, damning wind day after day, night after night, never satisfied with the whole lot of them. He’d sown his soul into the very air, into each icy particle, into each cold, wintery hell, so every movement he made, every motion he possessed, every action he composed, was for the Basin, was for the summit, was for the peaks, the valleys, the caverns. He calculated and devoured, consumed and swallowed, beckoned and cajoled, became the shadowy spectacle of monster and demon, of marble, of weaponry, of swords and cutlasses come to life – wore machinations as they clicked and folded along his skull, as they whittled, as they carved, along his mind. A portion of him believed she may refuse, vanish off into the day like so many others had before her – reasoning beyond him, because he’d always stayed and never strayed, because loyalty burned a hole in his heart just like the rain had, just like death had, just like his muscle and joints and acrimony fused together to form his walking, withering carapace. Another sliver of his assessments perceived she’d grasp and clench at the chance, at the notoriety, at the opportunity to gain a title for herself (Weaver her placard, her namesake would say, for weaving with a God’s power, with a deity’s blessing, must’ve given them all a thrill), and then possibly do nothing with it, be one more face stretching across the horizon and emblazoning it with naught.
 
Instead, however, she seemed…excited, ebullient, a small, eager smile adorning an enthusiastic claim, offering her sentiments, bestowing her thanks…
 
And he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. He watched her for a time, silence passing by in a ticking, quiet whirlwind, the Lord, the King, the stoic, impassive man standing amidst the uncertain storm he’d mired himself within. Thank you so much! she’d said, as if he’d given her anything and everything she’d ever craved, My efforts will only continue to expand!, as if she’d been rendered in pursuit, ambitious, clamoring over dreams. The beast nearly laughed, too shocked and stupefied and numbed by it all, because at least she was something different (not uttering hypocritical oaths, not spewing against all the plans they’d so carefully sketched, not screaming perilous endeavors simply because they could). He bowed his head, humbled for some reason, for he couldn’t remember a day where he’d been as ardent, as fervid as she (when it hadn’t been about violence, about stabbing, about massacring enemies or unraveling arts of chaos, when his sword hadn’t struck blows and lacerations and deep, vicious cuts). “Perhaps you are exactly what we need,” he said aloud, quiet and resolute, etched with a small smile along the corner of his lips, almost boyish, like he’d once been a child with passions and goals instead of a man tied by Lucifer’s strings.
 
Then she’d launched into her duties, immediately kindled and incensed, and the miniscule grin still remained, as if it was unsure of where to go or what to do. “You may consult with Johnny. We have recently begun trading with the World’s Edge and Dragon’s Throat. You may be needed to aid in their requests.”