[Training] against the tide

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Arduinna’s efforts and gifts granted them free reign – and he took it, avaricious, covetous beast – wandering down pathways like a curious juvenile. For the most part, he remained entirely guarded, taut, rigid, capable of exploding into some sort of frenzied, savage movement or motion the moment it became necessary. His weapons were still within his reach, aligned on his belt or in his hands. However, when we wasn’t occupied by the constant what-if measures or the eyes of the forest blinking at him, he ensured his mind took in the sights, the sounds, of the world around him. It was familiar and foreign all at once; because he’d once lived in a realm with rolling mist and nettled fog, where the expanse gaped and shuddered beneath layers of cloaks and daggers, where the cliffs met the sea in crashing, rolling tides, power within power, glory within glory. This kingdom had the same atmosphere, but more of an enigmatic, dangerous plunge – a coaxing decibel, a sirensong, ensuring that it would lead to doom and damnation if one took a wrong step, snares and oblivion, traps and scandals. It was beautiful, but only just so – too much temptation and enticement, and he knew better. He did follow the sounds and decibels of the river, inquisitive beneath the rubble lacquer and the nonchalant veneer; finally arriving down a narrow pathway leading to the rushing current. The Reaper’s gaze landed not on the water first, but the leaves and boughs, half-expecting them to launch and leer as he approached, believing in vines snaking around or shoving individuals into the gnashing course to be consumed, devoured, by either the rocks or the water itself. He’d already drowned multiple times; he had no intention of committing to it again. However, there was another inhabitant amidst the river – swimming against the barrage of water. Deimos arched his brow, and curiosity enabled him once more, inclining himself further until he was along the embankment, tilting his head as he recognized the person: Ronin, the one who’d died amidst the Spire and been renewed, resurrected, placed right back on this earth. The Reaper knew something about revival and restoration as well, but now was not the time. “You all right?” He hollered and howled out over the thunderous tides, pondering if the man had managed to find himself in a treacherous situation yet again – slinking patterns of treachery and disaster. Deimos could write a tome about those notions too. the last of a line of lasts