Drums of the decrepit beat a violent crescendo against his icy backdrop; he was the chilling wind and the serpentine boughs, the kindled essence of depravity and savagery, a wandering pierce of the underworld. When he breathed, he held notches of decay in his grasp, like a stark, cold, enveloping of finality, death, demise, eternally poised for the slaughter. He rejoined the outcrops of brutality in his vigilant, violent march across the grounds, patrolling, dividing, contemplating the ways in which he failed and the ways he could strive for more. The monster was too hardened to change entirely, he’d eroded and twisted and collapsed upon himself far too many times, but he was a carving of militia, mutiny, and malice, determination was woven deep into his bones and sculpted through his ribs. He’d twist and turn through the evening squalls and the depths of ruthlessness to bear everything the world flung at him (even when it hurt, even when it made him bleed, even when it crushed against his shoulders and barbed the tiny snippet of his nefarious, blackened heart), and then do it all over again. His herd was faltering, stumbling, flailing along in their rotten cores and disastrous tongues, spilling and spewing vitriol with nothing and no power to back it up – and he was so consumed with the madness of turning it around, with who to lock away and who to keep, that he nearly didn’t notice the scent curling across the icy aperture.
 
His head turned, skull entrenched like a predator, like a hunter, like a carnivore, eyes narrowed and studying, examining, the creature lingering beneath the Sentinels’ once mighty stare. Spring died around him, fronds curling along themselves in a remorseless scene of perishing, anguished beings; and he moved closer and closer still until he could trace the foundation of a memory to a face. Caleb, the winged beast who’d been let in because of the sword he carried on his brow, who somehow managed to escape from his wrath many times over, who disappeared and wandered and had nothing else to show for it. The Lord’s eyes, dangerous and alluring, twin pinnacles of disaster and torment, never quite stilled, sliding from the hound to the man who carried his companion, always calculating, always wondering, always orchestrating more ideas and notions. Instead of a greeting, instead of a fond, congratulatory welcome back into the scabbard of the chilling empire, he extended his vocals in one curt, blunt, keen venture. “What are you waiting for?”

  Perhaps this was one of the reasons his herd, his empire, was inherently flawed; multitudes had no ability to think on their own. During meetings and discourse, they held the capability to spew out any and every thought they ever possessed (over such ridiculous things: where to put metal, why wolves couldn’t be utilized for treachery and security), but when it came to action, when it came to tasks, when it came to responsibilities, they skirted and slithered back into shadow. Those who held their own motivations and aspirations were to be commended for their efforts (and it often showed as they adhered and grew to new positions, as they drifted from lower realms to the hierarchy); and maybe he’d believed they could all administer to their own trials and tribulations for too long, trusting in their power, in their dominion, in their might – and now witnessing it all implode. He stared at the soldier who awaited a mission, as if he’d earned it by some divine right, as if he were entitled to wield a herculean, monumental force after disappearing into the void for months at a time. Do your job, he wanted to say, he felt compelled to proffer into the icy aperture. Was a warrior’s ability, duty, function, or role a difficult thing to possess? Was it too arduous, strenuous, or burdensome to wander the halls of his homeland, ensure their security, their safety? Was it too exhausting to practice sparring with his fellow soldiers, mastering the art of their craft, honing savage, barbaric, brutal skills? Did someone have to hold his hand to ensure anything was executed? If all of their militia acted as Caleb, wandering and waiting for someone to tell them their next action, they were all headed for ruin.
 
The winter King snorted, disappointed, irked, irritated by bumbling fools and ridiculous notions. What had he been doing all this time? His eyes narrowed again, gathering a meticulous yearning for vengeance and violence behind his restless heart and his exasperated soul – but he knew, understood, that tearing apart another combatant wouldn’t alleviate the issue at hand. “You did not show at the fortify meeting, yet you expect a mission?” He bristled beneath his stony fixtures, his impassive, apathetic nature, speculating and pondering over what to do with the winged beast. Send him to Ki’irha, allow her to dole out a punishment for missing a mandatory service, skewer him on the spot, let his bones do the talking? The depths of his vocals curled and coiled in the air, penetrating and pervading, a devilish ploy, a fixture of demonic devices and prowess; a cutting, keen, curt blade held at the throat. “You will not receive a special assignment until you have proven you can adhere to your duties.” There was no purpose in sending a beast out for secretive operations, for furtive intricacies wrapped in cloaks, in daggers, when he could barely adhere to his normal tasks. However, if he needed a reminder, a spark, a kindling of what he was supposed to be doing, the Reaper would gladly bestow the knowledge upon him. “No one has surveyed the new lands lately. Patrol one and bring back information.” He paused, still apathetic, still nonchalant, still a piece of marble and ruin, Mephistopheles and Hades contorted into one bestial cretin. “When you have accomplished this, I may consider granting your request.”