DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
There’d been a gathering, and hardly anything good came out of dins, crowds, and hordes, a mass of people and inhabitants wandering in their own muck and mire. But as he approached, and some drifted away, he could read the sign now placed there, between the outskirts and the Greatwood, a common sanction and area – repose, if for an instant.
There, printed, some titles, some explanations: The Cloister of Trials.
Hadn’t there been enough trials?
He’d had tribulations from the very beginning, but the purposeful slate of his mind delved more into the possibilities for this event. They could get stronger, training, skirmishing, and dueling. With the latest disaster floating through his mind, he knew he had to get tougher, mentally and physically. He’d done well in the Spire until he simply hadn’t; too reliant on invocations and enchantments, the smoke, the fire, and the poison seeping through the haze. There was always the opportunity to forge and implore for more endurance, to scrape within the channels and chambers of his pulsing veins, of the necromancy, of the creation magic, settled, pooled, and coiled within.
It would be another instrument for growth, for brawn, for might.
Somehow managing to convince himself, he advanced, briefly nodding to Delah and Arduinna, before grabbing hold of the charcoal. The Reaper’s stare surveyed the other names there, ascertained they’d eventually be partners, allies, comrades, and opponents, but worthy; neatly placing his title amidst the fold. Then he backed away, his silence remaining, his soul kindled and incensed.
There, printed, some titles, some explanations: The Cloister of Trials.
Hadn’t there been enough trials?
He’d had tribulations from the very beginning, but the purposeful slate of his mind delved more into the possibilities for this event. They could get stronger, training, skirmishing, and dueling. With the latest disaster floating through his mind, he knew he had to get tougher, mentally and physically. He’d done well in the Spire until he simply hadn’t; too reliant on invocations and enchantments, the smoke, the fire, and the poison seeping through the haze. There was always the opportunity to forge and implore for more endurance, to scrape within the channels and chambers of his pulsing veins, of the necromancy, of the creation magic, settled, pooled, and coiled within.
It would be another instrument for growth, for brawn, for might.
Somehow managing to convince himself, he advanced, briefly nodding to Delah and Arduinna, before grabbing hold of the charcoal. The Reaper’s stare surveyed the other names there, ascertained they’d eventually be partners, allies, comrades, and opponents, but worthy; neatly placing his title amidst the fold. Then he backed away, his silence remaining, his soul kindled and incensed.
They're wrong
