True – Deimos’ preference ran and rampaged towards the straightforward: intending to extinguish any threats or treachery launched upon those he trusted, protected, or devoted himself too. In those modicums, he could twist, turn, manipulate, devastate, and ruin, plot, scheme, nuance cloak and daggers, indifferent to how far he managed to entrench himself into immorality or depravity. Each action, each motion, was orchestrated for another; for while he could be avaricious, it was often painstakingly regarded for someone else’s motivations. His aspirations were built upon swords, shields, knives, and claws, a rapacious beast with an edge towards vehemence, violence, and vengeance – action, action, action, no need for words when calamity was in his hands, his lungs, his bones. Helovia had always known what he was coming for - them, any notion of an ominous, foreboding measure upon his people, a blade sinuously unwinding and unfurling before their eyes. Some hadn’t cared, waged war for war, some had drifted away on the intonation of his wrath, of his abhorrence, and some had fallen apart at the seams, at the lacerating edges shoved into their frames. So he nodded, agreeing with the bard’s terminology; eternally exploring his options after the initial modicums.
Had the Sword known of the Sage’s thoughts towards his initial walks of life though, he’d have to deny some measures and imaginations. He had been a boy, running across the shoreline of the Moonlit Tides, sand between his toes, mischief in his veins, imploring, venturing, and exploring when he could, yearning to impress his father, striving to meet his mother’s expectations. Childhood had been fleeting only when he reached his teenage years, when strife meddled and molded its way into their homeland, when he lofted the same promises as the rest of his friends: to defend, to honor, to chase their way into glory. The beast had only hardened after crusades taught him loss; and then the world continued the same lines, sketches, and marks, etched across his skin of all the devotions that hadn’t mattered in the end. The thawing of his glacial walls merely took so much longer.
“What do you prefer?” He harbored in return, an arch to his brow, a slight depth to his smile, joking mannerisms immersing while he wandered over to the counter, picking up the remains of lunch – he could surmise any amount of things towards Jigano’s inclinations (discourse, discourse, discourse, savoring whatever information he could gather, use, implement, and wield, a knife in its own measures).
Had the Sword known of the Sage’s thoughts towards his initial walks of life though, he’d have to deny some measures and imaginations. He had been a boy, running across the shoreline of the Moonlit Tides, sand between his toes, mischief in his veins, imploring, venturing, and exploring when he could, yearning to impress his father, striving to meet his mother’s expectations. Childhood had been fleeting only when he reached his teenage years, when strife meddled and molded its way into their homeland, when he lofted the same promises as the rest of his friends: to defend, to honor, to chase their way into glory. The beast had only hardened after crusades taught him loss; and then the world continued the same lines, sketches, and marks, etched across his skin of all the devotions that hadn’t mattered in the end. The thawing of his glacial walls merely took so much longer.
“What do you prefer?” He harbored in return, an arch to his brow, a slight depth to his smile, joking mannerisms immersing while he wandered over to the counter, picking up the remains of lunch – he could surmise any amount of things towards Jigano’s inclinations (discourse, discourse, discourse, savoring whatever information he could gather, use, implement, and wield, a knife in its own measures).
