DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
He didn’t want to fight Chulane.
Deimos wanted to fight the past – the root of so many failures and defeats, the stem from which they all broke apart. An initial burn, of anger and vengeance, conspiring and contorting until they’d been nothing left but refugees in the snow, smoldering and seething pathways.
His eyes went back to the hell unleashed, to Mirage, who might’ve been a dragon, unleashing her forces and onslaught upon his own, and the ferocity brewed inside him with such a rapt intensity that he believed he might explode: with the power, with the derision, with the rancor and bitterness lodged in his chest. “Move.” A single command, cold, impassive, Reaper tendencies, and he sought control over a nearby boulder, threatening to hurl it at the closest opponent (Kri? – he’d take her down, all her wings and feathers and daring – then there’d be no one at the Throat’s helm).
The stare narrowed as the stone carved its way closer to him, preparing to launch – piercing gaze finally following directions, perception pinpointing to the other man.
And then there was nothing else. Like smoke and vapors and plumes, the battle disappeared, and he snorted, unaware of the delirium, of the way the invasion had never manifested again. The fire around him receded, taken back in from where it’d been unleashed, and he was left bereft and wild, torn apart at the seams.
He squinted, and put the rock down along the ground, the heat pulsing around his form, the confusion apparent in his furrowed brows. “I do not understand. Where did they go?”
Deimos wanted to fight the past – the root of so many failures and defeats, the stem from which they all broke apart. An initial burn, of anger and vengeance, conspiring and contorting until they’d been nothing left but refugees in the snow, smoldering and seething pathways.
His eyes went back to the hell unleashed, to Mirage, who might’ve been a dragon, unleashing her forces and onslaught upon his own, and the ferocity brewed inside him with such a rapt intensity that he believed he might explode: with the power, with the derision, with the rancor and bitterness lodged in his chest. “Move.” A single command, cold, impassive, Reaper tendencies, and he sought control over a nearby boulder, threatening to hurl it at the closest opponent (Kri? – he’d take her down, all her wings and feathers and daring – then there’d be no one at the Throat’s helm).
The stare narrowed as the stone carved its way closer to him, preparing to launch – piercing gaze finally following directions, perception pinpointing to the other man.
And then there was nothing else. Like smoke and vapors and plumes, the battle disappeared, and he snorted, unaware of the delirium, of the way the invasion had never manifested again. The fire around him receded, taken back in from where it’d been unleashed, and he was left bereft and wild, torn apart at the seams.
He squinted, and put the rock down along the ground, the heat pulsing around his form, the confusion apparent in his furrowed brows. “I do not understand. Where did they go?”
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
