DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The blistering contortions of the cave, its ramparts, its ridiculous upheaval, still mauled and haunted him; he should’ve been more capable, more efficient, more effective. Only a few times before had he felt so feeble and stupid, inept and ineffectual, droning on and on and on with naught to show for his efforts. Had the others not been in amongst the same threshold, fighting onslaught after onslaught, terror after terror, lending their abilities, their invocations, he might not have even standing there now – dead and gone again, sent back to oblivion without a trace. He would’ve been dust. He would’ve been demolished. He would’ve been nothing again – which seemed to make a full circle and cycle; the confidence undone, the belligerence uncanny.
But he needed to make amends, reparations, and acknowledgments first – before the Reaper presided back into training, into demolition, into abhorrence, striving to make himself better, stronger, mightier, so he wouldn’t be the towering, useless beast in another pocket of hell.
The warrior took his time gathering adequate supplies, and then bundling them together in a makeshift satchel, knotting the fabric together, tying it off so as he slung it over his shoulder it didn’t fly apart; muscles twitching, reminding him of their perilous ventures, and he thought to roll his eyes – carrying onward as if nothing would stop him (unceasing, resolute, adamant).
Finding Remi and Isla was another venture altogether: he didn’t think the blinded man would be able to traverse terribly far, and it only took a few inquiries and queries mentioned to those passing by to find himself at the cornerstone of the Artisan’s Guild. It was one giant market: he’d somehow managed to avoid this section and sanction altogether, but curiosity stoked and incensed at his machinating mind, stealing a glance here or there at present wares and artifacts. He could always come back at a later time and inspect.
The guildhall was his true destination, and he threaded his way through the crowd, never losing his munitions, eyeing the workshop-like atmosphere. He’d only ever created things with his hands – spiraled them in gilded glows when he required them – but the inquisition was there, sparking and sizzling once more. His brows furrowed briefly, then he continued, persisted, before he faltered again into a lapse of inquiry and completely lost his ambition. It wouldn’t be fair, not after everything the pair had done for him.
The beast thought he saw Remi in the space, meandering closer and closer, until his shadow pressed along light, casting out the sun, and he stood in front of the alchemist. “Remi,” he proffered, wondering if his deep vocals would be enough to intonate who it was, if he had to introduce himself every time – perhaps, just to echo in balms of familiarity instead of rampant confusion. “It is Deimos. I came to thank you for everything in the cave.” He lowered the bag down to the ground with a reverberating thud, then allowed the silence to sink in, wondering how the statement would even be met.
But he needed to make amends, reparations, and acknowledgments first – before the Reaper presided back into training, into demolition, into abhorrence, striving to make himself better, stronger, mightier, so he wouldn’t be the towering, useless beast in another pocket of hell.
The warrior took his time gathering adequate supplies, and then bundling them together in a makeshift satchel, knotting the fabric together, tying it off so as he slung it over his shoulder it didn’t fly apart; muscles twitching, reminding him of their perilous ventures, and he thought to roll his eyes – carrying onward as if nothing would stop him (unceasing, resolute, adamant).
Finding Remi and Isla was another venture altogether: he didn’t think the blinded man would be able to traverse terribly far, and it only took a few inquiries and queries mentioned to those passing by to find himself at the cornerstone of the Artisan’s Guild. It was one giant market: he’d somehow managed to avoid this section and sanction altogether, but curiosity stoked and incensed at his machinating mind, stealing a glance here or there at present wares and artifacts. He could always come back at a later time and inspect.
The guildhall was his true destination, and he threaded his way through the crowd, never losing his munitions, eyeing the workshop-like atmosphere. He’d only ever created things with his hands – spiraled them in gilded glows when he required them – but the inquisition was there, sparking and sizzling once more. His brows furrowed briefly, then he continued, persisted, before he faltered again into a lapse of inquiry and completely lost his ambition. It wouldn’t be fair, not after everything the pair had done for him.
The beast thought he saw Remi in the space, meandering closer and closer, until his shadow pressed along light, casting out the sun, and he stood in front of the alchemist. “Remi,” he proffered, wondering if his deep vocals would be enough to intonate who it was, if he had to introduce himself every time – perhaps, just to echo in balms of familiarity instead of rampant confusion. “It is Deimos. I came to thank you for everything in the cave.” He lowered the bag down to the ground with a reverberating thud, then allowed the silence to sink in, wondering how the statement would even be met.
They're wrong
