Viperous allure segmented and scalded his skull in waves; brilliant and vicious, horrible and hostile, a poisonous, venomous vector he toyed and played with, because success clamored through his pernicious, Machiavellian mind. For once, he’d been effective in orchestrating more than just landmines and catacombs, in grave, eerie raptures and nefarious reveries. He’d delved into politics and reached the surface without slashing the tides to fragments, slivers, and pieces of a broken, destitute nation; and he was capable of holding more than just cutlasses, rapiers, and shields in hand. There was some measure to him besides being the constant, immoral statue and guardian of the Basin – and for that reason alone, he held his head higher. The beast, the monster, the Lord’s malignant determination had finally found more than just a singular niche. The notions and sentiments carried him all the way from haunting poignancy, to their frozen, chilling sanctuary.
 
They trudged through the lands one by one, slinking and slithering between mist and fog, open fields and cascading loam; he, the eternal Reaper, protected and safeguarded as they marched towards icy denizens and looming mountains, assuring the Edge inhabitant’s safety without issuing a single word or command. His eyes were narrowed, his senses were honed, and he was the King of darkness and death, presiding over each and every kingdom as if he held a scythe in his grasp, sweeping over empires and heartless voids with potent, powerful strides. He was silent, detached, and nonchalant the entire way (could hardly strike up a conversation, didn’t know which method of discourse to try and shied from it), but when they reached the high walls and the towering peaks, with their presaged, bestial banes and their treacherous perils, their gleaming fortitude and all the might, the resilience, the brilliance forged within their armaments, he gave a half-hearted smile, a distinction of pride. The fiend even turned his head towards the moon-creature, dipping his cranium in respect to foretold goals and events, “Welcome to the Basin,” and indicating the borders with a swift nod.
 
Before the Edge dweller could ask anything about their world – the rime sanctions flanked in blackguard machinations, the feral strings of scathing defiance ringing its way within cavern apertures, the ensnaring, beguiling beauty of danger and intrigue, he continued, wandering beneath the Sentinels’ decaying gaze, watching to ensure Glasgow followed. He wound along the unfreezing lake, deep into the heart of the valley, encompassing a moving tempest, a rigid, possessive friction of mass and adherence, allegiance and alliance to chilling, stone fixtures. There, they meandered further along the embankment, just outside the Haruspex’s cave, to a patch of greenery and soil that had already been patted down in a previous season by the healers. Deimos ceased his movement, noting the space with an arched brow (because here, he was ultimately lost – not carrying any crafting gene whatsoever or the mind to orchestrate anything but plots, ruses, and devastation). “Are you ready?” He noted, unsure and uncertain of what needed to happen next, but forever willing to aid the process. “Do you require anything?” Perhaps someone who knew something more? 

[Greenhouse crafting thread! Tagging healers and those who wanted to be involved. Feel free to pop in if you want to help! Please let Glasgow post first.]

  Despite all of his cold-blooded calculations, all his schemes, all his strategies, the Reaper still knew so little about so many things. He was unaware of Glasgow and her talents, of the scars riddled along her figure. He couldn’t comprehend how to craft (except the wielding of knives, swords, and cutlasses, how to peel flesh away from bone, how to skewer, harpoon, devastate, and obliterate), or what even motivated a being to make things instead of break them. The monster was too much a soldier, too much a warrior, too destined and decayed from a life of pernicious predilection, avaricious acrimony, and vicious vehemence to understand a world where generosity was part of the backdrop. Too immersed, too shackled, too tethered to lines of supremacy, domination, and villainy, the nefarious, soulless fiend was only left to watch, nothing more than a helpless, inept King, far more foolish than he was wise.
 
So he watched, as he often did, silent as the grave, eyes narrowed, curiosity entangled, a witness to works of grandeur and oeuvre: masterpieces not requiring savagery or abominations. Mist formed, cooled, pervaded – and he thought instantly of the Edge and her long, spectral pillars of rock and shoal (how he’d clambered down to the shoreline once or twice, alone and then not, rain flickering and faltering, pelting down his face until he closed his eyes and saw her no more), of the fog encroaching, surrounding, of the forest he’d guarded and protected, of the ways in which the earth altered and changed everything. He saw the cloud become thicker, solid, tangible bits and pieces conforming to glass, growing, blooming, blossoming under Glasgow’s direction, and his jaw dropped a small amount to marvel at the skills and capabilities others’ possessed (and he’d remember her too, for her quiet, unsung confidence), the small smile, like it’d been nothing; not taxing, not draining.
 
Mortuus Nox arrived thereafter, and Deimos’ mouth closed, awe not extinguished, but features rendered back to their former nonchalance, piercing gaze still settling on the first wall and its smooth veneer. “Mortuus,” he nodded, pleased to see the other stag was still in possession of his pelt and he wouldn’t have to go mauling for it again (and could answer her questions much more readily than he could), before maneuvering closer to inspect, study, and examine the fine bit of crystal. His maw moved to touch it, and felt the chill, the glacial expanse, the frozen, frigid structure meet him, bite back, in accordance – as if it were already worn into the mountains, the twisting, strong, demanding kingdom of ice. “Thank you,” he added to the Edge inhabitant, still revering her abilities with careful, quiet perusal. “Would you like us to hold them up until you finish?” The Lord offered his broad shoulders and strong frame, craving to provide assistance instead of remaining incapable. The feeling of ineptitude crawled over his mind again (how he loathed the notion), and his tilted head, his warrior structure, fought against the burdens of incompetence. Perhaps she’d give him and the healer something to do.

They were late.
 
It was unlike them – but perhaps the morning had been too chaotic, her dreams too melancholic, her aspirations too rash. She’d spun away from the sanction of their cavern quickly, rapidly, chasing down the remnants of a lost morning, and still hadn’t arrived until two, beautiful glass walls had already been shaped, held together on fog, mist, and Basin brethren.
 
The construction was eerie and poignant, reminding her of the Edge, where defenses had been laid then wasting, cracked, brittle, and broken – but lord, if all things could be this glorious, she’d be sure to tend it until her final days. She could envision its final oeuvre – artistic and wondrous, filled to the brim with essential herbs and greenery, vibrant with color and splendor, with grandeur and expertise, with plants that could nurture, help, assist, and mend whatever ailments had come to pass. With these perceptions in mind, she and Imogen grew closer, restless and eager, fervent and ready to lend aid in whatever way they could.
 
Her eyes rested on Mortuus Nox and Deimos, nodding at them while they tended to their tasks, a smile firm and easy, whimsical and delighted, eyes turning to study the mare responsible for the masterpiece. “Its magnificent,” she stated, roaming closer and closer to the edges, to the lines drawn in the turf, where they’d patted it down seemingly ages ago, jaw dropping slightly in absolution and awe. “You’ve done incredible work thus far,” the fey complimented the scarred, unfamiliar femme, with her chiseled horns, with her red lacing, with her quiet, harmonious sculpting. “Is there any way I can help?” Then she maneuvered forward again, listening to the sanctions and decrees, nestling her form down where the next wall would be built, craving to be of service, an aid to the cause. Imogen did the same, settling near the Songbird’s forelimbs, tails fanning like embers and plumes.

  Lena continued to marvel at the creation, at the corporeal, tangible existence of something that was once nothing more than an idea, a thought, in their heads. Now it was glass, real, grown from mist and chill, blossomed from allies and armistices, and she tilted her head from side to side in ample inspection, with a broadening, widening grin so avid, so ardent, so keen to see the end results. Her heart beat with a jubilant note (at the sentiments of how many they’d be able to help when it was complete and full of precious, mending herbs) and her mind was filled with a radiant curiosity (the hows, mostly; what sort of magic reflected all these incandescent beams – was it given and granted from Gods, like her time wielding prowess, or something else altogether?). The distractions were immense and intense, amusing, diverting, whimsical, and delightful, and only at Imogen’s urging, a slight prod to the mind, a wrinkle of tails brushing against her legs, brought her back to the present, to words folding over, to directions and guidance needed.
 
How would you like the roof to be? Truly, the Songbird didn’t know the first thing about roofs, merely that they provided cover, like the caverns rocky overhang, the long, lengthy canopies from boughs, or the tent’s gentle fabric. What would be appropriate for their wares, their plants, their flowers? Something where the rain would trickle down, where the sun could still dry and allow them to bloom – but she was saved soon after by the Glazier, prompting a response immediately, grateful for the other mare’s experience. “What a marvelous idea!” Then she followed her in, nodding again at the Lord and medic holding up the glass stands, waiting for everything to be segmented, closed off, tightened, and finished. Her eyes roamed over the walls, the sky, the beginnings of bliss and harmony, where a roof would curve and elongate past the partitions, guarding the sacred objects nestled inside. She confirmed her affirmations with a nod, with mellifluous grandeur. “Yes, let’s do it that way.”

  She remained within the glassy walls, the shining interior, the reflective partitions as the roof was created, eyes widened, jaw dropped, smile unburdened as she witnessed the creation come to life once more. It was splendid to watch someone else’s talents come to life, in whirls, in puffs, on mist, on fog, unraveling all the components necessary for a triumphant flourish, a beatific finale. The tiny herbs would be nestled, tucked, and warmed, capable of flourishing in all seasons, even the brutal, chilling cold of winter – promising foretold use on their brethren. Kin would be able to come along and be reassured, eased, soothed, assuaged from their pains, from their miseries, from their agonies all year round. The thought nearly made her bow her cranium in reverence and refrain, sing some gallant opus to the Glazier who’d done it all for them. What an amazing gift, what a fabulous capability.
 
Eventually, once she’d completed her awe, once she was no longer stunned with the finishing touches, she poked her head out from beneath the only opening left, an aperture for them to go and leave whenever they liked. Breathless, excited, and ebullient, she praised the other maiden for her incandescent abilities. “It’s wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” She made a note of the door – to perhaps ask Johnny or Eldala – so that they truly had a covering for the colder months; a frigid evening would spoil all of their best laid plans. Maybe either would be willing to enclose the empty frame with some long drapery reaching down to the ground, but easily lifted by maws and teeth. A discussion would be in order. Nodding, determined in her next venture, the Songbird’s gaze returned back to the Edge femme, extending her gratitude all the more, for everyone and everything resting within the Basin borders. “Thank you so much!”