The Reaper watched his borders for hours, scaling and scathing rocky heights, devouring remnants of ice and discord, allowing his eyes to drift over an endless horizon towards the arch and steppe, then twist mercilessly along the only aperture, over and over again, timeless and bestial. With resilience, with poise, with eldritch abominations and seething motions, he thought to start the ritual again, ensuring naught and no one wandered past his gates without him knowing. There’d been nothing to annihilate, nothing to steal, nothing to savage, rip, and tear into for so long that he presumed during one of these vengeful hours he’d come across some requital, some resurgence, of old enemies or righteous missionaries, seeking to throw the devil back to where he belonged. But as he crossed, maneuvered, and toiled amidst the Tallsun decadence, naught hissed, sinned, or transgressed his sights. He was alone in his iniquity once more.
 
Eventually, even the continual promise of desolation irked him, and he wandered further into the middle midst of their vehement endeavors, piercing stare sweeping over the open grounds. There, down by the lake, appeared to be another unfamiliar form – at which he suddenly felt shame, because wasn’t he supposed to know each and every beast (he rarely did) that wandered and called his kingdom home? For a few seconds, he cringed inwardly, clenched his jaw, and flexed his ivories until they dug, uncertain and unreadable. A sigh wafted through his form, passed along the thin wind, and he began to maneuver his way towards the stranger, only allowing curiosity to become the primary twist in his gaits; roaming without the incensed corruption, the resentful destruction, or the heedless, marble malevolence. Yet, despite his best efforts, the motions were still all warrior, all King, all scorching, malicious annihilation.
 
But, on closer inspection, he believed the child drawn by fiends and devils might have appreciated the stoic sway, the indifferent demise, the unattainable fixtures he’d been bound within. The youth before him was unlike anything he’d ever seen – because beyond the painted designs and the horn structure, there were tusks jutting out from his mouth, much like a boar. The King indulged himself in a tilt of his head as he approached the lad, nodding to him in respect for a perfected set of future swords and upheaval (a fellow soldier could respect and admire a forged weapon, no matter the age or ignorance), stopping nearby, several yards apart, molding back into the land as if he were part of the stone, rubble, and ice. He had no idea who’d born this child, but the lad had Basin written all over him – strong, determined, on a mission for might and villainy. “Who do you seek?” He questioned, brow arched, savagery defined.

Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.