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There was something empty about the priestess not being present. It wasn't that Invictus missed her, but perhaps that she served a good unifying purpose to those who were present in the lands who needed more than just the heirs.

So when the flickering of lights returned to her tent, Invictus made a point to go and investigate, pausing outside of the flaps to give the Guardian standing outside a look that was just as judging.

Or shaming.

It would be a stare-off.

If there was one thing Lifen disliked, it was cryptic messages.

She had received a non-descript little note earlier today to come to the head-priestess' tent sometime around now, and initially had considered refusing it, for it could have been some kind of hoax or Lan trying to hook her up with some random stallion again or something. After some consideration, though, she decided to follow the request, showing up only a few moments after Mengyao and Invictus had appeared, giving a little disinterested look already.

Everyone knew that Medea had gone missing (again), and there was not much they could do to find her (she was a bit of a mystery), but being here, with her superior, and Mengyao, whom she was still rather disenchanted about recently, she started to worry what kind of plan the rsvp creator had in it's mind.

It wasn't funny.

Giving a little silent sigh, she walked up beside the Protector of her Clan, giving him a silent look in hellos, before turning to look up at the Horsewoman who stood in the way of them and the tent that she had been in a few times before, by now.

Usually bad things happened in that tent.

Shaheen had the hut--shack really now that they were cut off from the Lair--to herself for a few days. It wasn't out of the ordinary for Shik to suddenly go off on his own; he had done so when in need of retreat even back when he was just a colt. What was different this time was that he did not return home but rather slept in the trees along the edges the Boogeymen patrolled: isolated, lost in thought, and training when not at rest. The sight of the listless Lost Clans brought low by a nuisance of a patrol sickened him in ways he did not know could irritate him. They were not just Halloween, they were Horsemen, the true harvesters of Fear and heralds of the end of days that were supposed to be soon to come . . . That was how they used to be, not delinquents sat in the corner until they learned their lesson.

It wasn't just the mayor and his attack dogs that bothered the executioner, however. Medea was at the center of his thoughts as well.

For a high priestess, she did well. Shik had heard her say something about collecting things back at that hellhole in the human world, which insinuated she had another grand scheme up her sleeve. But her habit of disappearing was beginning to grate on him which, in tandem with his frustration at this practically castrating power hold the Clans, made for a rising temper he didn't bother holding back. In almost every regard, a victory for them ended up being mostly hollow. At best, the return of those who had been lost to the phoenix had bolstered their numbers and led to an increase in Fear gathering, but that had been made a moot point ever since the shadowlings had invaded. What next, he thought wryly, were they going to be on another mad hunt for something Medea wanted only to have that snatched form them as well? He was a Horsemen, not a gelding, not a scavenger for scraps of Fear, and most certainly not one who played nice with authority if he felt like just a chesspiece: he was ill-equipped, thinly patient, and thoroughly done with disguise and indirect tactics. He did not want to participate in another mockery of a human herd, did not want to sit on his a** and wait for the next mission for everyone to leap upon, and most of all did not want to lose again.

Blood. That was what he wanted to taste. And he wanted to hear screams, wanted to feel the tear of flesh, the snap of bones, the shriek of confused humans at war as he picked them off one by one, delicious and slow and the only thing he would ever be willingly methodical about. If he could do nothing about the corruption that tainted Senga and Shaheen and others of their kin, then Shik wanted at least vent it in some sort of destruction.

And he was going to get it one way or another.

Without warning the executioner's eyes snapped open from the hours long meditation he had set himself in, nostrils flared and jaw clenched, and took off from his perch in search of the tent. Perhaps he could shred it with his dagger and see how the high priestess liked his (admittedly childish but hopefully satisfying) rebellion -

- only to find that a small group had already gathered. Those of Conquest he recognized, Invictus by name, the others from missions prior; he could also guess at who Lifen was since Shaheen had described her to him once. Senga was a welcome addition, but there was no cocky jibe waiting his fellow War-Brother this time: just a stiff brush of feathers as Shik landed, a grunt, and an exasperated glare aimed before him.

He did not wait. He was tired of waiting. He was housing a need for chaos and vindication and action in a land of aimlessly wandering horsemen, and nothing would stop him except force. Shik eyed the wafting smoke of incense, an image so familiar it incensed his temper further, pun unintended. "This is horseshit," he growled, and stormed his way forward towards the tent and its guardian, wings bristling and puffed out. Every intent was to pass her or, if necessary, fight his way in. He would welcome a cut or two to remind himself he was still alive.

Wandering off for days. Yes, that was what the Famine Heir had been doing. Freedom, it could have been, as freedom could be in heavy chains rattling like bones through her body. She hadn't realized at first it had been a search. Bringing back pieces here and there like carrion birds returning to the nest with the choicest scraps of something that had once been life. A plant that reminded her of dry winds and an unyielding sun. Soil as sandy as the desert she had once run through, barefoot and laughing. They plucked memories from the swirl of Insanity in her mind, bringing them to the forefront for her to mull over and toy with like a child holding a new toy.

Perhaps she was merely lost, in a place not even her dearest siblings could follow. She did not know what it was she wanted or hoped to find, or even whether she wanted or hoped at all. It was purely nonsense. Everything was nonsense, and Cymbeline cared not a whit to make sense of any of it.

Now, a near hermit in her own herd, the Protector strode casually towards the tent. And flopped over her sibling's shoulder with a familiarity only herself and her sisters could show. "Pesty~" She crooned in his ear.

"Yesss~" Cymbeline singsonged. "Who died?"

Her immediate grin was feral, perhaps she had been going a little stir-crazy after so much leeway to shed hunter blood. This quiet life did not suit her. Traveling twisted roads in her mind merely led her in circles, so tangled up she may not have even realized her dear Pesty had been speaking in metaphor. They all were vultures now, picking away at scraps, feathers darkened with filth.

She reached out a hand to Asia in mimicry of the Conquest Heir, and giggled. King vulture, and his Queen vultures.

"You now who will, soon." he replied to Cymbeline's question, but seemed to smile none the less at the brief moments of contact with the Death Heiress, returning a kiss to her cheek as well (perhaps because she moved so fast, GDI Aisa).

Though it was true that gatherings of all four of the Heirs was becoming exceedingly rare. A shame, really, but like Aisa - it was always nice to see everybody.

And then all the Heirs made out