DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The topic of magic had always been an appealing one to the Reaper: something he’d had all his life, born into its balance between fire and water, his father’s flames a burning, beatific image, his mother’s stern, strong cascades a stalwart foundation. Then he’d discovered the lethal aspect of his enchantments, the way life vanished, withered, and decayed before his eyes, neither inferno nor rivulet, but a blistering, scathing sanction all its own. But upon arrival here, settling into the lands, he’d only acquired more. Remi told a similar story, emptiness, limitations, then growth, as if somehow nourished by the expanse – cultivated by practice, by knowledge, or something deeper, something larger, altogether? “Interesting,” he mumbled. “I came here with life drain magic, but have since acquired these creation powers. I am not certain how.” Or why - perhaps he shouldn’t have questioned them at all, but cherished, enjoyed, dug deeper into their nuances and notions. Did that mean one day he’d be able to wield items into magical intonations too? The thought kindled and snapped at his mind, chiseling and sculpting along the waves of factions and possibilities – he doubted Remi would be able to see the smirk suddenly enshrouding his features, but he quickly flickered it away regardless, prospering reticence when his Machiavellian skull swarmed with probabilities. “What sort of magical objects have you made?” Was there a limit there too?
The next set of words baffled the beast, and he blinked rapidly, listening to them over and over again in his head, refrains and repeats. He was being offered a chance to remain within the Artisan’s Guild? The speculation pervaded his membrane again, sizzling and seething in hundreds of directions, brow furrowing slightly.
It haunted him, that semblance of belonging.
The only groups he’d ever truly been gathered within had been friends, allies, and comrades – and a lifetime before, a kingdom, guarded and presided over by his chilly demeanor. But before he could grate or scrape any hopes together, he inquired further, nestled the nettles of aspirations aside. “What would I need to do?”
The next set of words baffled the beast, and he blinked rapidly, listening to them over and over again in his head, refrains and repeats. He was being offered a chance to remain within the Artisan’s Guild? The speculation pervaded his membrane again, sizzling and seething in hundreds of directions, brow furrowing slightly.
It haunted him, that semblance of belonging.
The only groups he’d ever truly been gathered within had been friends, allies, and comrades – and a lifetime before, a kingdom, guarded and presided over by his chilly demeanor. But before he could grate or scrape any hopes together, he inquired further, nestled the nettles of aspirations aside. “What would I need to do?”
They're wrong
