who we are and all that we're trying to be
For all the treacherous efforts of both Helovia and Isilme, none of the inhabitants were persecuted for their enchantments – most of them were embodied, embedded, and infused with those properties; it would’ve been hypocritical to hiss at one and not the other. They were utilized for war efforts, for invasions, for dedication to desecration, to sneak, to crawl, to serpentine their way around furtive measures. There’d been a hoard of other vehement, contemptuous acrimonies split over them instead. “Understandable,” he nodded, listening to Sascha’s explanation; Deimos had been amongst those clustered as refugees when they’d been hastened and bludgeoned out of their home, amidst the bestial, barbaric intervals attempting to gain something out of nothing – they’d been loathed, and they’d been abhorrent in return. He wasn’t certain if Sascha had the notion to be hostile or acerbic.
As far and for the minimal healing, it was better than nothing at all. Deimos had utterly no skill, and never would, with the aspects of soothing, curing inclinations; born to bludgeon, born to ruin, born to scathe, rip, tear, and lacerate. “We all start somewhere. The more you practice and hone your skill, the better you can become.” Just like training with swords, defending with shields: the notions the same, the instruction or practice adjusted. Perhaps the same could be said for the crafting incantations he'd had mustered in his fingertips - starting small, and the items had grown larger, in number, in size, in strength.
After he’d put everything away, ensuring blades and guards were stored appropriately, the beast turned, the small grin still there. “I can show you to the Infirmary, if you want.” He wasn’t a frequent visitor, had only gone once before when Flinthopper burns had ravaged and savaged his shoulder; nothing to be done for a being with death strung and stung amidst his veins.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
