intention erased

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame No matter the title, Sword or Reaper, the individual harboring the monikers could be considered blunt, forthright, and honest. Manipulation and deceit, with its specious, duplicitous regards, had only been rendered when necessary, or usually in the avoidance of revelations – silence, or withholding information, a favored solution instead. He’d had his thieves for those particulars. No matter how furtive the once-King might’ve been, eventually his actions told stories, wove tales, and the bloodied trail he left in his wake sounded the alarm in bridges of capabilities. Maybe the same happened here too, the bestial monolith with his blades and munitions, with his fortifications and protective, shielding stronghold, unfurling keen, veracious tones. His eyes went to the College door, and then back to Samuel, Zuriel meandering nearby and picking at bushes. Another worry, another apprehension, understood plainly, since Deimos hadn’t exactly explained how he’d be concocting the prosthetics and replacements. There’d be no intention of keeping the Ascended out of commission, once healed up, he’d be free to drift off to Torchline. “I can create it with magic. It would not take long.” Minutes, moments, perhaps, depending on the level of concentration, focus, and energy required. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace