DEIMOS
And in your darkest hour,
I hold secrets flame
The Reaper returned to the perch after Long Night’s end, when the haunting outcries ceased, when the intertwining, Stygian cords of endless evenings drifted off; seemingly with little fanfare, the curl of flames from the Spark Bird’s drifting off into the horizon’s threads. The lack of sinister claws hanging amidst shadowed portals and gloaming voids was a relief, but odd, as if he’d grown used to the weight of the ominous abyss’ candor, and didn’t know what to do when sanctuary, liberation, and deliverance had been proffered back to them again. It was the same time and time again, so acclimated to the depths of death, to the cold, shackled, chilling nuances, that he rarely understood what to do or how to behave when he was handed the sun, the moon, and the stars again.
Just try, was a ghost in his mind; a gentle, nudging refrain, and he acquiesced to the sagacity because it was far better than anything he could surmise. He studied the long columns of wood for a moment or two; imagining the bestial, untamed shades of light glowing from the flying invocations again; peace in the chaos, bedlam in the repose. It’d been an intriguing contradiction, so much fire and power striving to bleed out the nefarious reaches, when itself was a pinnacle of combustion and disaster. He’d enjoyed seeing it nonetheless, would keep the memory tucked away to reflect upon when the darkness encroached and the lanterns’ fuel ran dry. Reminiscing hadn’t been his sole purpose for arriving though: for littered amidst the melting snow and pockets of greenery desperate to reach the newly-forged rays of sunlight, was debris. Some particles had been burnt to a crisp and likely needed to be removed, ashes, soot, and embers reeling along thin lines of grass and edges of rime. Even debris had managed to scar the area, and he pondered, briefly, what was to be done with the perch itself – burnt and blighted thanks to its gifted occupant. Would it be taken down? Or would it stay for as long as it could, only being replaced prior to the next onset of seasons and the Long Night’s pending approach? He furrowed his brow and gave it another look, piercing eyes glancing over the splintered pillars, posts, and supports, before turning back to his sled. The object had survived the Long Night too, left at his own home and to its own devices. No monster had found it worthwhile apparently, but the warrior believed it worthwhile and useful, bringing it along over the disappearing snow, and he could always drag it over rock and rubble later. He grabbed hold of a pair of gloves, pulling them over his broad hands, and then returned the favor of the Spark Bird’s arrival – grabbing hold of the nearest curled, decimated object and placing it in the sled to be taken care of later. As he advanced upon still smoldering grass, he stomped on it with his boots, ensuring the little flames lost their air, their oxygen, and the plants could start anew. master of nothing place of recoil and grace |
[Seasonal Event] stitch away from making it
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the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo Level: 14 - Strg: 74 - Dext: 74 - Endr: 75 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
Played by: Heather
Change author: Posts: 6,812 | Total: MP:
03-02-2019, 01:17 PM
Entertainer ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 5'9'' | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds Level: N/A - Strg: 16 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 18 - Luck: 14 - Int:
Played by: Astor
Change author: Posts: 440 | Total: MP:
03-10-2019, 10:21 AM
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo Level: 14 - Strg: 74 - Dext: 74 - Endr: 75 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
Played by: Heather
Change author: Posts: 6,812 | Total: MP:
03-11-2019, 10:52 PM
Entertainer ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 5'9'' | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds Level: N/A - Strg: 16 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 18 - Luck: 14 - Int:
Played by: Astor
Change author: Posts: 440 | Total: MP:
03-18-2019, 09:34 PM
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo Level: 14 - Strg: 74 - Dext: 74 - Endr: 75 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
Played by: Heather
Change author: Posts: 6,812 | Total: MP:
03-22-2019, 10:25 PM
Entertainer ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 5'9'' | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds Level: N/A - Strg: 16 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 18 - Luck: 14 - Int:
Played by: Astor
Change author: Posts: 440 | Total: MP:
04-01-2019, 03:58 PM
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo Level: 14 - Strg: 74 - Dext: 74 - Endr: 75 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
Played by: Heather
Change author: Posts: 6,812 | Total: MP:
04-02-2019, 10:13 PM
Perhaps he’d been sculpted and carved out of the bones and sinew of his past so many times that he’d scarcely thought of the future. Before, when he’d beheld a sense of purpose, when he’d slid his swords through ribcages and hearts, when he’d sworn allegiances and oaths to an avaricious king, when he’d fostered brutality and barbarity as an occupation, there’d only been the next day. The next hour. The next moment. The next second. Thereafter, when they’d all fallen apart in mass, when defeat scalded the tongues of those still living, he’d returned home, tried to restore the flickered, cindered parts and contortions. Layers of unrest, sedition, and the briefest of respites ghosted their way through his methods and motives; until the rest fell away, and he’d sunk down into the thresholds of this place.
Here, in the present, in the now, he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. They didn’t need soldiers. They didn’t need warriors. They didn’t need the ignorant, the futile, or the inept, so he averted his eyes and listened to their phrases, their songs, their proclamations. He listened to recitations about how to survive Long Night. He chose a house and piled wood outside its aperture. He hunted and gathered and wandered, but there was no taste of adventure, no relish of the unknown, no beckoning, siren calls haunting him until he chose something. The Reaper amounted to nothing, just another form, another body, another being taking up residence in the sullen corridors. It was the latter that vexed him the greatest, because he didn’t understand why some things occurred (especially Long Night, and why they continued to suffer throughout year after year), or why they couldn’t bludgeon the world, the barrier, apart with their bare hands and escape the idle futility. Death wasn’t foreign, but the rest of the world was. He grabbed hold of another larger piece of garbage and tugged, this one was less rooted to its chosen domicile, and came up with the ease of his strength. At Lily’s inquiry though, his head snapped back in her direction, eyes narrowing for the briefest of instances, still, stoic, walled up and fortified with his iron-clad reticence and upheaval. Was she concerned about him? Was there something to be perturbed about? He’d spent so much of his last few seasons brooding that it felt like normalcy, a brewing, boiling surface of regret, rancor, and ramparts; a defense, a shield, against further terror and onslaught layered upon him. Had he given himself away, that eventually he was going to fray all those seamless strands, come apart, shards of revolution and unholy, nefarious deeds gone to waste? That he was striving towards something, but couldn’t identify it, couldn’t see it on the horizon, marking and chiseling his way with forbearance, wrestling with the unknown? “I am fine,” he finally responded, diving along the blurry line of lie and truth; shallow depths of veracity. He released the smallest of sighs, pondering if she had ever felt the same, treading over those sketches and dominations, uncertain of where to go or what to do. “Out of place, perhaps.” Then the heathen shrugged his shoulders, as if nothing were amiss when it was everything sullying his figure and clawing through his shadows. His piercing gaze flickered back to her as he grabbed hold of another larger entity of trash, pulling it along towards the sled. “And you?”
Entertainer ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 5'9'' | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds Level: N/A - Strg: 16 - Dext: 19 - Endr: 18 - Luck: 14 - Int:
Played by: Astor
Change author: Posts: 440 | Total: MP:
04-19-2019, 07:09 PM
I am fine.
Isn’t exactly like a man to say that, when Death came knocking and claimed more than they thought possible? Even for someone intimately acquainted with dead, nay, her bedfellow, it is permissible for him to sigh and then follow that sigh up with a satisfactory explanation. Men have feelings too! God forbid they have someone to talk to that won't judge them based on traditional masculine qualities. She is far from content with his explanation but from his tone and commitment to the work needing to be done, she knows she ought not to push it. She’s probably quite lucky to have gotten even that small admission of being out of sorts. It's frustrating. How do you get close to someone who seems to have a full-body set of stone armor? So instead she turns and rolls her eyes skyward in the age-old plea to the Gods to deliver unto man a smidgen of emotional intelligence. And like almot every woman who has come before her, she knows it will fall on deaf ears. Picking up the last bits of hand-sized trash, she nods in agreement. “Somewhat similar, I guess. I miss home. But then this is also becoming a very strange and exciting sort of home. I feel… weaker here, I guess.” She pauses to consider those words, because they aren’t quite correct. “No, not weaker… more like, behind. I can catch up, but I’m also just not like a lot of people here. I don’t fight, I don’t have magic powers. I can do other things, but I’m not valuable the way others are…” She drifts off with a soft blowing through her lips. She didn’t mean to lay that all on him. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to word vomit on you. None of those things are your problem, my friend.” She checks to make sure the piles on the sleds are secure, and then looks around at the area. Seems pretty clean. A glance to Deimos. Are they done? the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster ✓
Age: 34 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo Level: 14 - Strg: 74 - Dext: 74 - Endr: 75 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
Played by: Heather
Change author: Posts: 6,812 | Total: MP:
04-20-2019, 05:22 PM
The Reaper enjoyed his armor. It fit right over his heart and soul with animosity, vehemence, and stoic plates, iron-forged and bestial, a barbaric contortion nestled in thorns and brambles. Accompanied with his ramparts, parapets, and daggers, he was a force to be reckoned with, denied, left to his own devices. It was so much easier that way – rarely questioned, rarely glanced upon, rarely acknowledged. It kept others at bay, so he wouldn’t hurt, so he wouldn’t bleed, so he wouldn’t concave and erode before their very eyes – he’d done it so many times, corroded and fallen apart, flickered and dying underneath eaves and below bridges, suffering in silence. He tormented himself because then no one else could do it to him; how much more could they damage a man who lived amidst his own perilous anguish? It was sad and pathetic, to shy away from vulnerability, shuddering away from the exposure, the weakness, the susceptibility, but he tucked himself away regardless, head down, eyes on the shadows, the darkness, waiting for it to encroach upon him, smother, devour him whole.
Then they kept coming to him, accepting individuals who didn’t seem to care about how unattainable, how unreachable, he’d made himself. They didn’t care that he was a weapon. They didn’t care that he was ridiculous, stubborn, and defiant. They just continued to poke at his chainmail, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d had it all before, and then they died. He’d buried them in the sand, in the fields, beside riverbeds and outcrops, one by one, breaking further and further with each turn of his shovel, with each speck of damned dirt, with each raw, clinging emotion sputtering and dying right alongside them. And still, the world pressed more and more creatures and people in his sights. Try the watery words echoed. Please try. He’d take two steps forward and then hundreds back, stuck in his muck and mire, uncertain, almost afraid of the end results, if he pushed on and they found him lacking, wanting, more empty vessel than mighty, stalwart beast. It’ll be worth it, I promise. So he listened, a habit, a routine, of dissolving and sharpening his mind while his mouth was silent. @Lily had no misgivings about admitting, about agreeing, with his sentiments – they were all so lost, wandering and wayfaring and nomadic because they didn’t have anything else. But to think she felt weaker, when he had never perceived an ounce of frailty or fragility in her was an intriguing notion, and he had to look back into the shamble and shadows of woods to decipher and breathe. Behind he could understand; the rest of this earth had a head start in understanding, in comprehending, the works and pathways of this newfound place. While Deimos could tell everyone about Isilme, the roots of its hatred and animosity, the pulsing, pervading madness of glory and triumph scorching their skin, leading them onto defeat over and over again, it was only because he’d been born, lived in, their walls and tides, their sweeping sands, their chaotic embraces. The Outlanders hadn’t been christened here, brought for one reason or another by an unforeseen circumstance and enigma – and they were at the Naturals’ mercy, as rich and extended as it’d already been. Value was an interesting subject, for despite even holding his enchantments, his invocations, he felt as useless as ever; no one requested death upon anyone’s house. The warrior shifted, rising from where he’d been bent and toying with the last of the rubbish, eyeing the pile on the sled, while he mulled over what to say. “You are not worthless,” he replied first, a hand steadying the larger bulk, pulling some in various directions so it was more stable when he dragged the sled along the thawing ground. “We all have our talents. Some have not had the opportunity to be utilized. We will learn and adapt.” The Reaper’s eyes settled on her, tilting his head, a steady study of her features, of all the aptitude, expertise, and capacities buried underneath. “There are many ways to regard strength,” and here he arched his brow, the simplest of smiles brushing across his lips, before he yanked at the rope of the container. “We should find a place to burn this.” | |||||
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