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.