[seasonal event] fell to the top

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Silence was one of his munitions, a part of him as old as time itself, imparted from years of scholarly reflections, then war-torn machinations, until they all unfurled in hushed, malicious rushes of iniquitous power; when the realms and kingdoms knew he didn’t have to say a word to have them all slain. It was a comfortable role and position, the witness, the bystander, the watcher, before he had to leap, dash, or assault; to observe, to study, to examine, to scrutinize, then unleash his cruelties, his actions, his reasons and motivations he deemed it satisfactory. It was easier to blend into the shadows, along the throngs and thralls of darkness, and let the rest of the worlds do the talking; plot their discourse so he could tilt his head, so he could partake in more devious, duplicitous acts, so he could ponder weaknesses and fault lines. Then sometimes, it was devised from patterns and habits, customary for him to fall into quietude and stillness while the rest of the kingdoms moved on; allowed him to erode and decay from the inside out, stare at the maneuvering voids and abysses, trying not to stumble and crack, splinter and fray, the moment the unexpected maneuvers were thrust his way. Here, hardly anyone asked his opinion on something (Outlander and Abandoned came with a double-edged sword), and when he dared to raise his head, his voice, above the crowd, the riot, the reckless, seething din, it hadn’t really mattered. So he bid his time, as he so often did, carving along the edges and fringes until he was required, listening, waiting. He was stone and marble. He was sword and shield. But ultimately, the Reaper was nothing but hollowed out and patient, composed on the borders, on the tethers, on the lines he proffered, on the walls he built, on the rubble he presided over. Perhaps Jigano was the opposite: fluent and fluid, capable of charms and discourse, always seemingly in the middle of everything. He flaunted ideas and theories, facts and conjectures, organized guilds and sought out lore. He fostered connections, while Deimos hovered, slinking along the perimeters (a predator; the carnivore chase), until some curious souls plucked him into their orbit, poked away at his carefully-maintained bricks and facades. When his craft was deemed more than suitable, the beast merely nodded again, not sure what else to say or do, hands no longer busy, not toiling at weapons, warcraft, or newly-forged baskets. His piercing gaze, however, did manage to catch Jigano’s more vicious, wicked grin (finer than the Fae’s indeed; which was just as much as a compliment as he could hope to receive, since his first intentions were to always outdo). “Perhaps,” he proffered back with the margin of his own mischief in the gleam of a smirk; boyish again, an interlude to the days long since gone, when he concocted schemes with the rest of his childhood friends, pledging swords and arms to gain and pilfer pies off of windowsills. He grabbed hold of his basket again, the framework of snow and ice laden firmly in his grasp (rime and twin monoliths, gazing down at strangers; a warning, an ultimatum, a recipe for disaster if they intruded, if they stepped any farther), ready to catch the sun, to tease and torment. Then he intended to return to the same trail, meandering at the entrance to see if Delah had left; the ruse would be had if their capable warrior remained, turning to glance at Jigano, to ensure he was following. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate