Elm

A call would ring across the lands -- a summon for none other than Basilisk Saxe. He would let it ring, not once, not twice, not even three times. But a dozen. Perhaps more. Doubting the authenticity of the call and questioning the man who sang it. What could possibly be wanted of him? What did he possess that any other, besides the few closest to him, might want? After some time -- hours, even -- his journey would draw to a close as the scent of marker borders impinged on his nostrils.

Alone and confused, he would step forth, gaze desperately seeking the man that had called for him. The boy shuddered as the cold wind whipped past in, strong and unforgiving. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the man would simply slay him here and now. Perhaps he was a mind-reader of sorts, and had seen his foul intentions when they had first met. A slight scowl would grace his unblemished features as he drew closer, dipping his head ever so slightly in greeting.