D E I M O S
The Reaper had always been meticulous and methodical, a juxtaposition between the untamed, feral interludes beneath skin and flesh. It’d served him well in battle – control and precision, calculated wiles, a movement, a motion, meant to throw an enemy off, for him to manipulate an opening, to destroy and devastate an opponent, an army. In these quiet, slightly absurd moments, however, it manifested the same tactics, and his mind was willed into the task at hand with little qualm or upheaval. He dug a trowel into the soil like it was a blade, his hands sifted through dirt and terrain like it was bloodshed and tyranny; the beast wasn’t remotely bothered by the ludicrous sentiments dragged through the situation. He worked best when there was naught else to occupy his thoughts, shoving them all aside, attention solely riveted to the assignments and details in his grasp. When the ghosts of mountains and glaciers suddenly erupted behind his eyes, he ignored that too, inwardly growling at the bizarre, clattering things, pushing, brushing them away, grabbing hold of one lavender shrub, kneeling, and placing it within the hole he’d just dug.
But the sensation of being watched slunk over his spine; and for several seconds, he allowed that instance to stretch, for his mind to reel, for machinations to coil close. Perhaps someone had heard him dragging the sled over rock, and were simply curious. Maybe it was Amalia, coming to see what had caused such a ruckus.
When his piercing stare lifted from the lavender, they met the gaze of a leopard’s.
It might’ve been an intriguing picture: predator and predator. But he’d spent far too long surviving, existing, carving out the world with a cutlass, with a rapier, to suddenly be torn asunder in a damned garden. The warrior went completely still, a stone, a monolith, a piece of devastation and ruin struck by the innate cords of his existence. If worse came to worse, and the creature attacked, if his death enchantments were too slow, he had his hunting knife. If he could reach it in time –
So he waited, barely breathing, like a heathen, like a fiend, on the stretches of the battlefield, fervent, ardent, no rapier in hand, no shield intact, save for his indifferent features, sculpted and etched for the legions, for the masses, unattainable, unreachable, a hellion on the outskirts –
But nothing happened.
In fact, the more he stared, tensed, became rigid and stiff, the more he realized that there was no ravenous inclination from the leopard’s stare. It appeared almost excited; but not to instigate inevitable upheaval. The soldier blinked, and tilted his head, rupturing the nonchalant framework with apparent curiosity. If this carnivore wasn’t prowling for food, then what was its purpose? Was it someone’s companion, wandering the streets until it heard a noise? Was it a true leopard, come down from some mountain region, keen for entertainment instead of hunting? It appeared to be a daring creature, audacious, expectant, which likely served the feline well – fortune always favored the bold. Deimos’ eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, attempting to piece together the riddle, the puzzle, the enigma, unfurling its way through the midst.
He continued to watch the opposing beast as his hand reached for something in his sled, unwrapping a sheaf of parchment paper lined in snow and ice, the wrapper crinkling. He’d meant for the meat inside, some partridge, others turkey, to be for @Amalia, and he’d simply leave it on the doorstep, but she wouldn’t notice portions missing. When he had some tiny pieces in his grasp, he dangled it from his fingers, waving it in various directions, bemused at the possibility of its head following his movements, bewitched and beguiled by food. “Hungry?” Then he tossed it in mid-air, intending to divert or distract it away so he could finish planting and escape before the baker returned.
