The behemoth had paid little mind to the settlement – his eyes had been cast over woods and fields, over shadows and demon intervals, over the wonder of broken lantern lights, over the meticulous, derisive walls of his own wandering soul. He’d meandered once or twice to offer his services and brawn in the shaping and molding of shops, but otherwise, he’d kept to the tavern, to the library, and everything else in between – not in any sort of rush to claim something of his own, to ramble amidst the outlooks of strangers, to join in merriment or repose. The monster had spent a lifetime of meandering, nomadic intervals, sometimes in the rush of crusades and triumphs, in the gallant, murderous rampage of glory and victory, or in the hollowed, miserable incantations of anguish and despair. It felt odd to even begin to change the circumstances now: home had been a series of tents or barracks, home had been scolds and laughter, home had been rain and windstorms, then death and crumbling, nonchalant artifices.
Nothing appealed to him now – his narrowed, piercing gaze lingered on buildings not entirely run down or broken. He merely moved instead, savage and nefarious, every indication of a marauding, fierce peer, presumed naught or no one would bother him in his unruly movements, and he’d be back out in the untouched terrains before long, sorting out his restlessness with the claws of demons or beckoning of fiends. However, the bursting noise of someone clearly hitting something echoed past his ears, and he turned to glance in the direction of the din; arching a brow as the stranger laughed, a bark of the wilderness, harsh and unrelenting, pummeled past him. Drunk, was his first inclination, and the reticent in his soul had no need of any further interest; if the interloper deigned to reel about intoxicated, inept, and ridiculous, it was his choice (Deimos would admit he’d done all three more than once) - but then curiosity had always dealt a heavy hand with the beast, and he managed to wander closer out of boredom and investigation, pondering if the person had fallen to their death, and the last note before expiring had been the feral chuckle. He wandered closer, nearer to walls and corners, attempting to follow the brandished nuances and noises; tones uttered with whoops and cheers. His features wore themselves back into his restrained, reserved resolve, before catching the glimpse of another, mask in hand. Interest somewhat satisfied, the Reaper shrugged and continued onward, the depths of his stare registering further down the streets and alleyways.
