Stagnancy and complacency bore a constant wound – a dull, throbbing ache usually ignored, usually disregarded, usually folded over and forgotten. But when the motionless, still, muted crawl of its treacherous wrath began to burrow deep within the mountain lairs, it was nearly too deep, too fast, too furious. It reigned like a wraith over their sovereignty, hushed and static, blinding and ferocious, standing taller than they ever could, and the Lord despised it for what it said about the world he’d cherished for so long. It spoke of weakness, of ineptitude, of ineffectualness, of a laziness borne from days of riches and dominance, mired and torn, shredded and lifeless, amongst the gathering gallows waiting for them at the end of days. Gradually, they’d become a machine with no wheels, no engine, just an undying pattern – recruit, disappear, patrol, repeat. Gain alliances, drink in peace, clamber about in repose, repeat. It’d dulled his sword and shrouded his eyes, cast a veil over the promised lands, once so full of conviction, once so full of strength, supremacy, and power. He couldn’t fathom, couldn’t understand, where their prowess and potency had gone – perhaps flown in the face of retreating comrades, whom he’d believed loyal, gone to new stages and new places in their lives (Ashamin, the brightest Haruspex they’d ever had, Rexanna, the gilded Thief gone to bask in the glow of love and life instead of the dreaded snow). Few seemed to remain, going about their daily lives with soulless smiles or entitled regard, but it was difficult to spurn that the weight of the Aurora Basin no longer made the realms shudder. There had been a time when everything they’d done, everything they’d committed, had been noticed, had been perceived as prowess and ominous, treacherous snakes winding their way through chilling gardens and noxious valleys; they’d created an opus, a masterpiece, an oeuvre, to the determined and enduring, to the persistent and audacious, and now…now it seemed like a sinking ship, an anchor dragging them down into ruins and destruction.
 
He was not surprised at Hotaru’s thunderous vocals, the way her ferocity simmered and seethed along their icy threshold – because in some contortion, his frustration was the same. It didn’t leak out in waves of blood or haunting, banshee screams, but through the seething, tired, disheveled, crumbling weight of his crown, the way his shoulders carried too much and not enough all at once, the way his gaze caught over the smaller crowd, hoping for something that wasn’t there. They were better than this collapsing, fragmented force; but they had to show it, had to fight for it, had to want it.
 
So he listened, stood as a shadow near her, as she ranted and raved, spoke to their people, to their disciples, to their beloved comrades still capable of taking up arms, of showing the world what they were capable of. The Reaper watched the armor fall to the ground, clinking, lifeless without a master, almost bemusedly looked upon his son, pondered if he’d take up the bait, or if he’d remain silent as their Lady scolded, as she ignited, as she unraveled all the pretty pretenses, all the whimsical voids, and showed them why she’d been chosen to reign seasons ago. When she’d chosen to fall silent, when her words had spattered against the grain, he took his opportunity to rile them again, to rattle the chains that had gone lifeless and lethargic. But where Hotaru had been fire, laced with brutality, with impassioned zest, his vocals were commanding, forged by legions of ice, by finality, by the beacons of an iron-clad demon, a vicious, metallic fiend, who couldn’t stand to see them falter and stumble any longer. “We must alter the way we have been living. The Basin was never meant to be idle.” He almost relished, wished, for the days of Psyche, where the asp had slithered through her grounds and tirelessly wound along the archways for moments to spring, to act - peace was only a temporary delusion of grandeur. Eventually, chaos would splinter them all apart again, and they could not be left scattered and stupid. “Rexanna has departed and left a Thief rank open. We need another Weaver. We have few warriors. We cannot participate in a task given to us a year ago by the Spark God, because we cannot fill our positions.” He glanced at them, openly stared and defied, seditious and rebellious, a revolution burning in his lungs, along his vocals, across his black, black heart, begging for a sense of salvation, a sense of duty, to wash over the muted, dulled throng. “Where is your drive? Your motivation? Show us how the Basin thrives, instead of how it falls apart.” The piercing slate of his stare echoed on one final surge, one more demanding spike, before he left it up to their people all over again. “How do you want to be remembered?”