DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
He waited; still, sometimes stone, sometimes rubble, sometimes a ruin. For now, the beast was his namesake, Sword through and through, living, breathing weaponry, capable of unfurling, of unleashing at any and all predilections. It was unnecessary for the moment however, and merely the way he held himself, from days of scouting perimeters, of stalking shadows, of ensuring nothing and no one sought his own: kin, brethren, kingdom. The same mannerisms of scrutiny applied here as well, and though she was of an unreadable facet (something else to be appreciated; he often rendered the same tactics, mannerisms, the impassive gaze, the reticent blade), her words held enough merit, enough weight, to be considered.
The monolith was surprised at her first statement – but didn’t show it. Instead it was an unsettling fathom in the midst of his machinations, in the back of his mind – an experience with dragons, a group of them wandering into caves, searching for a heart to ignite a shrine. And even if their mission had been successful in terms of acquiring the organ, it had come with a terrible price. Four souls lost; two newly reborn.
So he granted her no skepticism there – couldn’t without being a hypocrite himself. He’d only recently thought of wandering back into the same damned midst to retrieve the bodies, to ensure a proper burial. But then he’d seen them rise again at the Voice’s behest, and everything was shrouded in enigmas, trials, and tribulations again for different reasons. Perhaps his reaction to her would be incredibly bizarre, but there were no misgivings, no doubts, no certainties laden into the semblances of such dangers and treacheries. She’d know already. “What color was the dragon?” The tone, much like his features, save for the slightest tilt of his head (a raptor, a feline, a canine inclination; borne from his savage intricacies), were neutral, but his eyes were narrowed, piercing, pondering.
If her inspiration was vengeance, he couldn’t fault her. It’d been in his Machiavellian threads, a fire in his lungs, a bitterness in his soul, for so damned long it was a part of his limbs, his bones, his entity. He permitted a nod to unravel in his movements, a single arch of his brow towards Aisha, pondering over what she thought, but giving no hidden voice or Attuned measures. Not yet.
Then back to Elidhe, because he’d known of loyalty and devotion too, and how sometimes it didn’t matter. How it broke and fell apart, how it snapped and fragmented. How it was tested in the midst of battle and open flames. How sometimes it rose to the occasion, a shelter, a sanctuary, a shield, and how sometimes it was forgotten. Was it to doubt her? Probably not. He rarely underestimated anyone. Experience had just left thorns and nettles in his sides, in his ribs, in the scars slashed across his skin. Deimos remained still and stoic again, no other movements concocted, a composition of control. “Do you have any experience?” And if so – perhaps she was willing to be tested on her abilities.
The monolith was surprised at her first statement – but didn’t show it. Instead it was an unsettling fathom in the midst of his machinations, in the back of his mind – an experience with dragons, a group of them wandering into caves, searching for a heart to ignite a shrine. And even if their mission had been successful in terms of acquiring the organ, it had come with a terrible price. Four souls lost; two newly reborn.
So he granted her no skepticism there – couldn’t without being a hypocrite himself. He’d only recently thought of wandering back into the same damned midst to retrieve the bodies, to ensure a proper burial. But then he’d seen them rise again at the Voice’s behest, and everything was shrouded in enigmas, trials, and tribulations again for different reasons. Perhaps his reaction to her would be incredibly bizarre, but there were no misgivings, no doubts, no certainties laden into the semblances of such dangers and treacheries. She’d know already. “What color was the dragon?” The tone, much like his features, save for the slightest tilt of his head (a raptor, a feline, a canine inclination; borne from his savage intricacies), were neutral, but his eyes were narrowed, piercing, pondering.
If her inspiration was vengeance, he couldn’t fault her. It’d been in his Machiavellian threads, a fire in his lungs, a bitterness in his soul, for so damned long it was a part of his limbs, his bones, his entity. He permitted a nod to unravel in his movements, a single arch of his brow towards Aisha, pondering over what she thought, but giving no hidden voice or Attuned measures. Not yet.
Then back to Elidhe, because he’d known of loyalty and devotion too, and how sometimes it didn’t matter. How it broke and fell apart, how it snapped and fragmented. How it was tested in the midst of battle and open flames. How sometimes it rose to the occasion, a shelter, a sanctuary, a shield, and how sometimes it was forgotten. Was it to doubt her? Probably not. He rarely underestimated anyone. Experience had just left thorns and nettles in his sides, in his ribs, in the scars slashed across his skin. Deimos remained still and stoic again, no other movements concocted, a composition of control. “Do you have any experience?” And if so – perhaps she was willing to be tested on her abilities.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
