DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Damien didn’t speak right away. Just listened, hands working rope through callused fingers as Deimos talked. The man didn’t posture, didn’t dramatize. He didn’t need to. He just laid it out—his reasons, his blood in the snow, the choice to bleed again if it meant keeping Halo standing.
There was something in that Damien understood, maybe even admired. Not the magic, not the titles—but the grit beneath them. Because Outlanders who’d lasted in Halo long enough to rise were still standing for a reason. And Deimos had done more than just last.
So Damien nodded once, slow, almost to himself.
“This is my home,” he said then, simply but with a kind of conviction. “Always has been. Before I even knew what that meant.”
He looked off toward the treeline as he spoke, where the snow hung thick on the branches and shadows pooled beneath the evergreens. One of the luxere stepped lightly through the drifts, lowering its head to nose at something half-buried beneath the powder. Its antlers caught what little light filtered through the overcast sky, casting faint reflections in the snow as it dug, slow and steady.
“I was raised out here. Learned the land by walking it. Learned the cold by bleeding in it. Everything I’ve got in me came from this place.”
There wasn’t reverence in his tone but there was weight.
“I stay because I belong here. Like the snow, or the trees, or the wolves. I know how to live with it, and honestly? I'm not sure I'd know how to live without it. And I’d rather freeze on my feet out here than be warm somewhere I don’t belong.”
Damien paused, dragging a log into place before looking up, eyes steady on Deimos. “You carry a lot on your shoulders—Warden of Halo and leader of the Monster Hunter’s Guild. That’s not a role most could handle on a good day.” His tone was quiet but firm, no fluff or false praise.
He shifted his weight, adjusting the load on the sled. “I’m curious how it fits together. How do you balance the city’s safety with... the hunt?” He held back the rest of his questions, choosing instead to meet Deimos’s gaze with a quiet spark of curiosity in his brown eyes; a subtle, unspoken readiness to learn.
There was something in that Damien understood, maybe even admired. Not the magic, not the titles—but the grit beneath them. Because Outlanders who’d lasted in Halo long enough to rise were still standing for a reason. And Deimos had done more than just last.
So Damien nodded once, slow, almost to himself.
“This is my home,” he said then, simply but with a kind of conviction. “Always has been. Before I even knew what that meant.”
He looked off toward the treeline as he spoke, where the snow hung thick on the branches and shadows pooled beneath the evergreens. One of the luxere stepped lightly through the drifts, lowering its head to nose at something half-buried beneath the powder. Its antlers caught what little light filtered through the overcast sky, casting faint reflections in the snow as it dug, slow and steady.
“I was raised out here. Learned the land by walking it. Learned the cold by bleeding in it. Everything I’ve got in me came from this place.”
There wasn’t reverence in his tone but there was weight.
“I stay because I belong here. Like the snow, or the trees, or the wolves. I know how to live with it, and honestly? I'm not sure I'd know how to live without it. And I’d rather freeze on my feet out here than be warm somewhere I don’t belong.”
Damien paused, dragging a log into place before looking up, eyes steady on Deimos. “You carry a lot on your shoulders—Warden of Halo and leader of the Monster Hunter’s Guild. That’s not a role most could handle on a good day.” His tone was quiet but firm, no fluff or false praise.
He shifted his weight, adjusting the load on the sled. “I’m curious how it fits together. How do you balance the city’s safety with... the hunt?” He held back the rest of his questions, choosing instead to meet Deimos’s gaze with a quiet spark of curiosity in his brown eyes; a subtle, unspoken readiness to learn.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
