[PQ] Long may you run

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts A steady, resolute pupil, the beast listened to the notions springing from the Fae’s mouth, from the vines curling and recoiling, from the wayward energy clinging to leaves, to boughs, to branches, and eaves. Were he not on a sojourn to liberate those he considered kin, then the Reaper might have enjoyed the inner workings of the forest, for it was alive and dangerous in its own right, a colossal fortress stretching towards the sun, an outlining canopy holding the world together, timber and wood promising, rasping, tearing. It was a world unto itself; and he respected it in the fluid moments, when it reminded them of its power (tricks - he’d heard them before, when he and Kiada blended their way through sheer curiosity; had no wanton urge to be contorted amidst the throngs again), of what was at stake. They slowed; his ears picked up the sound of water, distant movement and motion, the echo of ready yourselves and we are close, and suddenly his heart resounded with such a rapacious, predator crescendo he thought the world would hear it. His eyes glanced to Samuel, only proffering a minor tilt of his head as the man became only outlines, perhaps a gift, an invocation, he was capable of wielding. For Deimos, his readiness came in the form of checking over his weapons, ensuring they were still where he’d kept them, then breathing, a molten inhale proffering violence and vehemence, quiet and unholy, silent and sinister. Then came the rush of his deadly veins, a pulsing, pervading curl below his ribs, nefarious incantations fervent, eager, if they became a necessity. His senses were riveted, focused, on the outliers and framework, studious and examining, expecting the woods to showcase their oeuvres and munitions. the last of a line of lasts