magic itching in her veins
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#15
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
If the Naturals admitted to their own flaws, then how could they hang the very same ones on the Outlanders? Did they have some advantages, more knowledge and better tactics? Of course. They had time and wisdom on their side in this regard. But Weaver does not have the prejudices of many of her fellow Naturals, and as such, she is more likely to admit the truth. There’s some part of her that gives the Outlanders credit, even, for learning to navigate this world. Because of all the ones she had met, none really clung to their previous lives. They may be more akin to toddlers, stumbling and falling as they learned to walk, but they would learn all the same. ”You have found many of the worst of them, but there are frost giants and water elementals as well, both uncommon though. There are rumors of the Eirachi, a lesser god or something akin to it, living in the tundra, though I don’t know anyone who has encountered it.

“We do have a few more harmless things, luxere and ningos mostly. Memory snow, which is a bitch if you don’t know what to do with it, but rather fun once you do.”
She chuckles at that, thinking of all the times she or her brothers had used memory snow to trick one another. Usually it was her doing the tricking, and her brothers doing the yelling. Fine, it was almost always her doing the tricking.

She sighs at his words, simply because they are true. ”I was not made for stillness. Or even being all that careful,” she says with a wry grin, though she is not a fool either. Weaver knows her home well, and she at least has an idea of the rest of Caido. The other lands were stories to her, if she had heard anything at all, but still, she had grown up with it and is not without some caution. ”I suppose I worry I will lose him, if I keep going and he does not catch up. But I cannot simply stop. I cannot simply pretend that Caido has not changed.” Because it has, and there is too much goodness to deny it. Despite all the hardships they face, even now, this is a good life. Or at least, it is as good as they dare hope for.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#16
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
While Outlanders had brought a wealth of ignorance with them to Caido, along with a healthy dose of confusion and lack of control over their own life patterns, they’d also carried their own experiences. Whether or not those fit into Caido was another thing altogether. Deimos had hastened the violence in his bones, the quiet, unearthly, eldritch scheming in his withered heart, and the ice, the action, in his sinew, flesh, and blood. Perhaps it would eventually count for something – all their attempts, all their trials, all their hastening whims to embark along customs and traditions, and trying to remember their own. His memories of oceans and mountains, his recollections of wars, of battles, of ichor-soaked hymns, might ultimately serve some purpose. For now, he instilled those ramparts, fortifications, and accord into the marrow and backbone of the Grounds, taught them how to wield weapons and forge onward, how to collaborate when the rest of the world could not, and how to embody strength when it seemed so perilously uncertain. He clung to bits and pieces of himself, impossible to forget and forgo when multiple lives had cut, slashed, woven, sculpted, and crafted the beast before the flames.

Another god, committing that particular name to memory, either for Amalia’s knowledge or something else to stow away, frost giants looming before his eyes in imaginative whims, and notions of water elementals cast into the spinning annals of his mind. Only a smile for the deer followed. “We have luxere here in Deepfrost. They protect the Grounds during LongNight.” Memory snow had its accustomed bounds too, recalling the strange abomination wandering through the flakes and storms, serving a figment of someone’s thoughts and dreams.

While he unraveled the embers, brought the seething tower, down, down, down, allowed it to drift over the plains of water, not a single ripple on its vestiges, he listened again. Not made for stillness, for careful properties instigated a hushed laugh, understanding its nuances, since he knew and cherished several who embodied the same. He lifted his head towards the tips of canopies, the rise and swell of changing leaves, pondering the intricacies and boundaries of siblings, the need to protect and liberate in familiar strands. “If he cares for you, I doubt you will lose him.” As angry and upset the other might become, family was family. If he intended to cut her off simply because Weaver chose to reach for things other than Halo, then perhaps he’d need to re-evaluate his own goals and aspirations. The Sword didn’t know the individual though, and could not say much more. “Nothing about this world is listless, so we should not be.” It was why he provided provisions and support. It was why he grew in strength, in might, to ensure others could follow through and do the same. It was why he modeled and valued attempting, striving, and trying, to do more than remain still and broken.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#17
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
She nods as he mentions luxere in the Grounds, glad someone has confirmed that bit of information for her. She’d thought she’d heard such, but wasn’t sure if the luxere appeared in other places with snow as well. ”They do not like those who wield dark magic,” she says, flame jumping to life on her outstretched palm to make the point. She rarely catches a luxere, though on occasion she can manage to snare one in a trap. It is as if they know though, as if the scent of her magic is left behind, and they steer clear of the things she has touched and set in hopes of them. The luxere Weaver had gotten from Wessex for the simple price of a tour had been a welcome gift indeed. Funny, how they are protectors in the Grounds, but little more than food in Halo.

The fire in Weaver’s hand dies as the tower comes down, turning into a lake of fire instead. How appropriate, she thinks, for it sometimes feels as if she is walking a tightrope above a lake of fire not of her own making. The sort of fire that could burn her, that could ruin her. It feels like one more wrong step may bring everything tumbling down. At least where Korbin is concerned. Everything else though - all the rest is looking brighter than she’d ever dreamed, brighter than she still dares to hope most days. ”I know you are right,” she says with a soft sigh. ”He has never been the same since our older brother died. Since I nearly died. And I cannot blame him. He buried our brother alone, he watched me on what seemed like my deathbed. He is afraid, and I do not help in the matter. But I cannot stay still.” There is too much to live for, even if that life ends up being short.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
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#18
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
A muffled laugh made its way through his throat, not choked down, not swallowed, but quiet, a rumble of tenacity. “No, they do not.” He’d tried his hand, after all, between drunken melodies with Amalia and only small, paltry glimpses with Samuel, airs of war strains not feeding into the deer’s livelihoods and whims either. “Hence why I do not assist in gathering them.” Too much darkness, too much lethality, in his bones and his marrow, either by magic or simple actions for so many years. A system of the inevitable, capable of honoring the irreverent, the damned, the broken, the carnage, but rarely encompassing the lighter edges. It was others who’d brought that to him, figments of suns and stars and sagacity beyond hatred, rage, and vehemence. Besides, he did his part for LongNight in other ways; providing provisions, making plans, establishing grounds they could wall themselves within. They’d just have to be better this year.

He wound the cinders around and around, watching as sparks flew but ceased to catch, controlled and contorted back to their brethren, heightening on inhales, dimming and lowering on exhales. His head tilted again, listening all the more while enchantments wrapped and goaded, provoked and amplified, then fizzled, wanting the rise and fall within his lungs. The sigh only encouraged an arch to his brow, waiting for the inevitable too. Dead siblings, nearly-demised sisters, wakes of buried things that no one wanted to repeat, were understandable, guarded circumstances. The Sword’s gaze pressed in along the fire, and then to the outer reaches of canopies, of stark outlines that could’ve once been walls, comprehending both angles. “I have felt the same about my loved ones.” Wanting to shelter, wanting to protect, wanting to be the shield, the dagger, the maiming, ripping, clawing monster before them so no one else could touch, could damage, could destroy. To take every nuance of danger and treachery, to leech and lance it into his bones, and never into theirs, to protect until his final breath – as he’d done in prior worlds and lives. He thought of Amalia, wandering constantly into the midst of drama and upheaval, of Kiada, who wanted to save Ru’in’s soul, how neither of them wanted him to be a hovering, harpooning mass around them. “But I cannot hold them back either.” There for them in every failure, in every triumph, when they circumvented the globe and the galaxies, when they roamed together and fought, fought, fought. “You learn to choose your moments carefully.”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#19
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
Weaver chuckles slightly. ”You all gather them, we just eat them.” Same continent, and yet such different lives. Though LongNight for Halovians isn’t all that scary, because it’s not exactly that different for them. Stay inside as the blizzards rage outside. There is no sun to be seen in Halo much of Deepfrost, and though perhaps LongNight is darker still, it is not that strange for them. They also lack the monsters of the Hallowed Grounds, but still, it does not seem as bad as they make it out to be. Stay out of the way, stay alive.

She watches his lake of fire, listening as he talks, though her gaze stays on the flames. Controlled instead of consuming in his hands, whereas in her own they still feel as though they consume. Perhaps they are controlled, but they still take and take from her. She is weaker than the fire she wields. ”He doesn’t really remember our parents, but our mother was the sort that would never keep you out of danger. No, she threw her children into all sorts of situations and watched us figure it out on our own. That is how I grew up, and how I live now.” It simply was not Korbin’s way, and she could not give him the lessons their mother had.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
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#20
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
For some reason, the notion of eating the luxere had never occurred to him. He hunted deer frequently, but not the glowing, mystical, mythical ones – likely due to his association with Auni, and their ability to save and protect. The Sword left them alone for the most part, and had only trailed after their figments and factions after the Monster Hunter’s Guild had burned to the ground. “They shield us from the monsters at LongNight,” by way of explanation, the ripple and roll of his shoulders in another shrug. They held more meaning than merely food here.

He began to lift the fire upwards again, scaled and undulating, like tides of infernos, conflagrations, and flames, the current pulling, stoking, and taking. He’d always prided himself on being the epitome of control, of precision, of meticulous, methodical stoking – capable of unleashing hell, damnation, and blood with quick executions and inherent, primordial convictions. Sometimes his frame was so attuned and adept to the melees that it required no thought at all; the life drain pulsing in his figure was eternally gathered and ready, to slink, to consume, to devour. He’d make sure each incantation, each enchantment, harbored and harpooned in the same ministrations and fate – wanted them melded and molded to a spectacular degree.

Weaver’s family sounded like an intriguing one; uncertain if his own mother would’ve done the same. It seemed more likely to be his father in the notion of foolishness or unpredictable, tempestuous swings, a man carved out of boldness and audacity, rather than Stone’s quiet, poised ferocity. “And you survived. So there is something to be said for the method.” A little grin, wild and wicked, tucked along the edges of his mouth.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#21
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
Luxere are not all that mythical to them, particularly not Halovians. Magic is so ingrained in their lives that it becomes less magical, in a way. The glowing, mysterious luxere are just another animal, another potential source of food. ”You could all just stay inside, you know,” she says. It seems a vast amount of effort to collect luxere and keep them with you in order to go outside. It is really not that hard to just stay in for one week. There are blizzards that last longer in Halo.

He continues to move the flames, and the effort with which he can hold the magic is perhaps the most impressive thing. It still tires her quickly to create flames. It is vastly easier to take existing fire and manipulate it, though she can move much larger amounts with relative ease now. It is the actual creation that still exhausts her, and so she limits how often she does it. She can pluck from Deimos again, though for now she just watches, learning what she may be able to one day do.

”I rather liked her methods,” Weaver says, something nostalgic but happy in her voice. Her mother was taken from them when Weaver was still young, but she remembers enough, and Erebor had taken over much of her training after. Deimos reminds her of her brother, a man not of words but of action, far more controlled than Weaver would ever be. Still, he’d taught her where her mother left off, never coddling, but letting his sister figure out how to survive. ”My older brother trained me when she disappeared. He was much like you, though he was more vocal about my regular disappointments.”
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#22
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos fought off an eyeroll at her words; mostly because while they were true, he’d heard them several times before this moment in the past few weeks. No amount of explanations ever mattered – not to Safrin, not to other Naturals – despite the words pressing against his mouth, behind his teeth. That’d they’d tried to save others. That they went after their friends’ desecrated, ruined, marred forms. That in the end, none of it mattered. It only left him to wonder if any of their preparations did, or if at some point, the mere thought of them staying within the domiciles would pierce his skull. So the beast nodded, smothering down the molten breath threatening to fume in his lungs. A flaw, a defect, in his own vessel and entity.

Along the tidal falls of the fire, stoked and integrated into the ethers, into the vestiges, into the air, the cinders rolled and reeled, watching spikes of ascension and then descent, purposefully pulling some towards the oasis’ waters, so they dangled along treacherous wakes before sliding back to their brethren. They flowed in rapid succession, one after the other, in a fiery pattern of conflagration and power, prestige and prowess; the capabilities endless. She’d be able to do the same one day, for longer periods of time, if the cycles continued and persisted, if the world carried on as it often had. He made no mention of his creation magic being unruly and bizarre – concentration honed and harpooned on these levels of formidability and destruction – a comfort of known devastations.

Weaver’s mother sounded much like the childhood reaches of Isilme, not hovering, not shielding, but wiling to let her children run themselves into ruts, if not granting them a push beforehand. “What else did she have you do?” A light chuckle; series of memories following thereafter in his mind – days where they stretched their limbs across shorelines, heeding absolutely no warnings; childhood antics becoming schemes and plots, devices of growth out of ridiculousness and rampant, juvenile stupidity.

The implication of her brother being similar to him earned her an arched brow; a peering from the corner of his eyes. He seemed to embody that aura for several, uncertain of where and how he’d gained such prowess. The Sword managed another rumble of laughter at the last words, the implication layered within, another shrug and roll of his shoulders. “You have not disappointed me.”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#23
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
She is generally pretty open minded, and she can understand trying to go save people. It’s the fact that those people couldn’t stay in their damn houses in the first place that will get to her. And she’s not likely to have a lot of sympathy, having grown up in a place that required them shelter inside for long stretches of time. You just prepare and then do it, and if you run out of food you just fucking starve till you can pop over to the neighbors again.

Weaver plucks a bit of his fire and draws it closer, stretching and shaping and spinning it around in the air before her. Simply working on control, on keeping her hands tucked to her sides and her mind on the conversation. If she can learn to work the fire while her mind is doing something else, while her hands are still, then she can learn to fight better with it as well. For her mind would be busy keeping tabs on the fight and not the flames, yet she needs to control them all the same.

”Took us to bars even as children. Sat us down in a booth with some food and explained how life works in the underbelly and the trenches. Taught us to read a room. We’d play a game, trying to predict what someone might do based on their actions or overheard words.” She taught Weaver how to use her femininity as well, though she leaves that part out, having a hard time bringing herself to share that with the mountain that was Deimos.

She chuckles at his next statement, nodding slightly. ”Well you are not actually my brother, so it’s much easier.” The implication is clear enough, that brothers are always disappointed by fiery younger sisters who could not be still. Ones who could not follow the rules when the point was to learn them. She’d always believed that you learned them only so you knew how to break them. ”You would have liked him though, I think.”
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#24
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos had come from multiple worlds where inhabitants knew how to survive, how to fight, how to seethe, how to brood. Not doing anything but linger inside shelter had never been his strong suit, prone to restlessly pacing the floors, becoming a gloomy fixture in the corners, or working on incantations, artifacts, to distract himself. Last LongNight had been pitfall after pitfall, and they’d likely need to make it very clear to those gathered this year about what the expectations were. No more heroics, no more talking to monsters (the haunting image of Rexanna’s impalement would never go away), no more embracing the darkness, the demons, as they swelled up around them. They’d have to cease in throwing caution to the wind, and embody it; something he’d have to fight himself to embody.

While she plucked at the edges of his fire, he blistered them back in return: they volleyed and rallied, those infernal cinders, twisting, curling, and contorting along the hovering inches above the Oasis, a taunt, a challenge to water, before he grasped hold of the ripples, the undulations in the pool too. A trial, a test, for his own endurance and fortitude, watching as they wrestled back and forth, as steam hissed and sibilated along the expanse, as he listened with a nonchalant brow.

His own mother hadn’t been quite in the way of Weaver’s – hers a more scholarly, surly dictation. His father likely would’ve been the type to send his children off into wakes and see what they did, how they made themselves, doing much the same as Deimos’ juvenile tactics played out at sea, crossed over waves and sands, held a sword aloft. “Practical skills,” he uttered, because they were, especially here.

The Sword’s siblings were really by bond, and not blood: those like Hotaru, like Rexanna, who’d understood and known him for so long that they could expand the teasing and taunting long before he settled in for irritation and silence. They picked him apart and knew he’d always be there for him. He guarded, he presided, and he listened – their knowledge and sagacity orchestrating a long-lasting reign before ultimate demises. To be back in their midst was something he cherished, though he’d never tell them that. Liking Weaver’s brother was intriguing, because he didn’t like many; there were those that he saw as shelter in the storm (few, but loved and honored), those that were comrades in arms, those that were acquaintances and friends, and then those left off in the sanction, ignored. So he shrugged at the comment, because they’d never know. “Did you have a large family?” A safer topic, perhaps.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#25
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
She comes from a place where survival is everything. Sometimes the hardest part of it is not doing anything. Sometimes you have to sit and wait it out, sometimes you have to run, sometimes you have to turn your back on those you care about most. Turn your back, or give your life in exchange. There is always that choice to make, and is it worth it? Perhaps. Yet, wouldn’t Caido have been better off with her brother still in it rather than her? She cannot help but think that it would have been, that the wrong person dwelled in Mort’s realm now. Though she cannot live like that, and so she doesn’t. She is the one here, after all, and she will not waste his sacrifice.

The fire she steals is easily replaced, his inferno a raging and immeasurable thing. Was the inside of him like the quiet pool below, or like the fire that raged above it? She is not entirely sure, for it seems like he might be both. A raging inferno and a quiet calm pool, both tucked within their places inside him. He gives away so little of himself, these conversations largely one-sided. She doesn’t mind, thinking he prefers it that way, though still, she wonders.

”Five of us. Father, mother, older brother, me, and younger brother. Just the last two of us now though. Never large, and certainly small now.” Her voice is not sad as she replies, just matter of fact. Their deaths were a fact, a part of her life, and though she would forever miss them, she was not afraid of the topic as so many were. Perhaps this is why she prays to death.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#26
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos had rarely given himself away – and if so, it had only ever been to a select few. Letting others in spoke of a vulnerability, an opportunity for them to see the darker, seething edges, the fumes of rage, the incantations of contempt, and everything else nestled in between. There were nefarious armaments and emboldened statures, furtive measures, specious endeavors, and then the few virtues parceled amidst bloodied frames and rapacious, avaricious figures. Not much of it was kind. And the world had taught him that to grant others portions of his existence meant they also knew his weaknesses, could exploit, could unravel, could drown, could suffocate, could mold him into demise and ruin far quicker than he’d ever mire himself. So the beast had learned to be guarded, to be fortified, to build wall after wall after wall, chilling and calculating, reticent and reserved. Most didn’t have enough patience to keep climbing, keep knocking, or keep peeking their heads over the next rampart. For a while, even lifetimes, that’s all he’d ever done – and it was so easy, so simple, to stop the world from tearing into his soul.

Until here, where there was so much more tolerance and acceptance. It’d taken him this long to fathom and understand it, and still not expertly pinpoint around it. But if she’d asked something, he might’ve answered. It was just that most didn’t bother.

But he could listen – always apt, always poised, for secrets, for undermining tactics, or just to be a focal point while someone mused out loud. There weren’t enemies in this midst, and he didn’t have invasions, wars, or any other malicious orchestrations to command across plains. Only moments like here and now, brushes of fire and water, as he coiled the water alongside flames, listened to their hissing, almost like dragons, scorching and meddling amongst the Oasis vestiges. The movements were swift and bounding along the edge, almost unfurling across the embankments, like they were chasing one another, vicious and wild, stories of old, of legends passed along.

So he did the same now, as she spoke of her family, of those boundaries gone and severed, and those still remaining. He just didn’t know what to say thereafter – talk of blood bonds would only bring melancholy and despondency back. My family was slain while I was off to war wasn’t the greatest of subject matters – and he had some here, alive and well and whole presently. “You will find more as the world expands. Friends become family.” A small smile tucked its way along his mouth, as he permitted his draconic elements to continue their battle scene.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
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#27
Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
Weaver only has a few walls. She is select and careful about them, keeping out prying eyes from the things they should not see. Though mostly, she is open. Open and honest, and it makes her easy to trust even when perhaps she should not be trusted. Though she does not see the point in hiding the truth, at least not the story of it. It’s the emotions behind those stories that she is far more careful with, revealing what cannot be used against her so easily. Other than her love for her brother, but there is no point in hiding that. All anyone needs to do is ask someone in Halo of the Hale siblings, and they will learn the truth. Honestly, all anyone needs to do is ask most any question of Weaver’s past in Halo, and they will learn the truth. That is the thing about small towns; there are no secrets. It is vastly easier to just not bother with them in the first place.

The fire continues to burn as he speaks of the world opening more. ”I wonder what else we will find. I have heard stories of places, of some long-lost Caido, though I do not know what will be true now. Even Halo is not as it once was, or so they say. Though whatever Halo was has been lost to history.” She shrugs slightly, watching the draconic battle rage before him, still twirling a small piece of his fire lazily in the air before her. It comes to hover, shaped into a tiny little dragon, as if a child watching its parents fight. ”What of your family?” she asks, the question vague enough to leave room for him to give only the pieces he so wished.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
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#28
Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos and his family, his friends, his comrades, had been maligned too many times in too many circumstances to ever give or grant secrets away. They were embedded in his bones and placed within his sinew, muscle, and flesh, and never rendered from his mouth. Truth and veracity unwound from the latter, and only when necessary, a heavier weight and meaning to their discourse. He was open to his select few, those chosen by experiences and trust, by merit, grit, determination, and tenacity lining in their veins. He snorted at her thoughts though, a warmer chuckle brimming over the surface, while his elements rampaged, while she added hers to the seething, simmering collection and fortitude. His deep tones only unraveled the semblance of what he’d encountered here: tribulation after tribulation, as the world branched apart and flung in portals, as it opened and bridged gaps, as it traversed into winter factions and ocean conflagrations. Their curiosities always seemed to instill hostility from the opposing ends; circumstances with the Fae at the forefront of his mind, much like hungry, rapacious cannibals, or unknown dragon contortions in the summit regions. “Likely more trials. Perhaps they will be worth it.” An arch to his brow, meant to be humorous, before pulling the water and fire apart, allowing them to sear and bristle in opposite directions, as if they meant to collide with one another head-on.

He didn’t expect her question though – and the piercing slate of his eyes wandered directly back to the draconic forms, jaw tightening, clenching. “They are gone.” Dead, slain, twice now, if reincarnations and redistribution of his soul was meant to be obliged: losing them all again and again, the patterns and cycles of his losses, of his melancholy, of his sorrows never alleviating. Those stuck, thorned, and nettled, no matter which path he walked upon. So he’d tucked himself away until there’d been some willing to embark and traverse through his felled footholds, his ramparts and fortifications; trust instilled, honored, and granted in return. “Hence why my friends and loved ones fill that void.” Otherwise he’d be just as alone, just as brooding, just as cornered in shadow, at home in the darkness once more.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS


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