the wild screaming weight

Time has stopped before us The sky cannot ignore us If someone had asked Deimos years ago if he’d be working with Sunjata across regional tangents, the Sword would’ve snorted, gone down into the massive depths of his spite and bitterness, and likely refused. But wars made strange allies, and no longer worrying about Ru pervading in the Archon’s orbit, there was nothing left to show for his age-old animosity. No Ascended. No charges of arson. No spy guilds. Just the semblance that they were trying to do their best with what they’d been given, and then carving out a niche for themselves and their respective kingdoms. Without the Valkyrie’s anger or outrage tied and tethered, anchored in flames, Deimos had no reason to turn his towards the Flood again; hatchets buried under altered conditions. Whether or not he fully trusted the man was another thing entirely; he couldn’t correct some of those ancient slights overnight. Normalcy then, hovering over those lines and means. Hovering over another herd of deer before moving on, he slipped around outcroppings of glacial boulders and rocks, before swinging back down another stream, following its wavering pathlines through the valley. If you think your people could benefit from ice, sure, he granted with a slight amount of amusement; Halovians had more than enough. Healing, however, from renderings of unicorns, could do well for his constituents; mending a benefit and boon to all, easily shaped into something tangible. the Resurrected Sword No one can separate us For we are all that is left