DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
He laughed too, at the notion of talking about dead things, like some sort of depraved individual, when it was just another part of life, picking apart the grisly, the horrifying, everyday things others couldn’t stomach or stand. The Reaper had been numbed to the ritual as well, part of battlefield monstrosities and barbaric wounds, though he rarely went poking or prodding at them. Perhaps they were fascinating in a morbid sort of way, where healers had to puzzle over their complexities, their ruins, their edges, to see how they’d come to combat them, war against them, sew them back together without fear of collapse. “We will probably keep her busy at some point.” Which was another sad, deplorable philosophy, but with the turning of tides, there was bound to be more artifices, more pretenses, and then more bloodbaths, rage fixated and centered squarely on bestial proclamations, the roar of the undone crowd.
The warrior watched as Remi flinched at the Fae’s name, the unsaid, unspoken nuances there in the flesh. Naught needed to be said to understand the implications, so he bowed his head and listened, Samuel the informant providing Remi with the story already. The warning was a barbaric clarity too, and if he were not a hardy beast the notion of her capabilities might’ve made him shudder; but he had no inclination of breaking, of falling apart at the hands of her schemes. There were debts to be paid and owed, and he wouldn’t go back on his word – but perhaps there would be other measures, other means, if worst came to worst. “What did you do to earn her wrath?” The curiosity hung there, poised and crafted; but he regretted it the moment it left his mouth, not intending to pry, but longing for the layers, the lacquer, the intonations and decibels behind it. How far had Remi pressed? Had he not at all, and simply earned her contempt another way? Or were they simply all doomed and damned, just by stepping inside the village, just by curiosity, promises, and misgivings?
The warrior watched as Remi flinched at the Fae’s name, the unsaid, unspoken nuances there in the flesh. Naught needed to be said to understand the implications, so he bowed his head and listened, Samuel the informant providing Remi with the story already. The warning was a barbaric clarity too, and if he were not a hardy beast the notion of her capabilities might’ve made him shudder; but he had no inclination of breaking, of falling apart at the hands of her schemes. There were debts to be paid and owed, and he wouldn’t go back on his word – but perhaps there would be other measures, other means, if worst came to worst. “What did you do to earn her wrath?” The curiosity hung there, poised and crafted; but he regretted it the moment it left his mouth, not intending to pry, but longing for the layers, the lacquer, the intonations and decibels behind it. How far had Remi pressed? Had he not at all, and simply earned her contempt another way? Or were they simply all doomed and damned, just by stepping inside the village, just by curiosity, promises, and misgivings?
They're wrong
