intention erased

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The weight of formidable things flexed and fluctuated along his shoulders, crawling down the depths of his spine; because portions of it felt wrong and some felt just and he wasn’t sure where his grey moralities blended together. Judgments settled within his cranium not by race, but by individuals, in the same stead that he never faulted Rexanna for her Ascension, and now Samuel, with his sacrificial alms towards the Grounders. Had either been a part of the blight? Had either caused any other fault or flaw in the Mathair treachery? A sigh threatened to bite and howl through his chest, and he released a slow, steady breath instead, nodding to confirm Zuriel would be able to replace the fluid. Then the man’s wrist was offered; lifelines the same, no matter if they were brightened or attuned. He retrieved the knife on his belt, emboldening a flare of flame across the steel, cleaning, ensuring the edges, the serrations were pristine, before allowing it to hover over Samuel’s limb. His eyes went back up to Samuel’s features just once, looking for the certainty, the acceptance, before justifying one more nod, proceeding as he’d done so many times before. A drag of the blade across flesh and skin, tearing, opening, except instead of ichor and blood, it was fluid, and once the cut had been made, he placed the other man’s hand into the jar, where the liquid could collect. “Zuriel,” he intoned and commanded, a deeper rumble echoing across the halls, and the unicorn materialized again, a haughty fragment suddenly at Samuel’s side. If she was annoyed or irritated with the concept all over again, the mare managed not to show it – and instead chose to be irritating, vexing, and annoying, lowering her head so the weight of her cranium rested primarily on Samuel’s shoulder, the glow of her horn indicating the healing prowess and process in motion; replication of the Ascended substance to return. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace