to take arms against a sea of troubles

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper was grateful some portions to their resistance threads were complete: a leader and advisors chosen, one less restless piece to their sedition. What was to come next? Where would the insurrection truly begin? How would they be aligned, placed, into the threshold of revolution? Gods, how he had once thrived in the tempestuous edges of terror and treachery, contorting, distorting, weaving in and out of the furtive spaces, the meticulous fringes, sword raised, schemes chased, battle lines drawn again and again and again – and now he was uncertain of where they would all come together. For the present, he intended to drop off a few weapons in the basement, where they were at someone’s reach at all times, if one day they ended up breached, found, discovered by those they couldn’t trust. There were only a handful of daggers, some throwing knives, and two slender blades, but they would do in a pinch, and he had more available at his house should anyone have a request. He bid his affectionate greetings to Amalia, then headed his way down the stairs, lantern in hand, presuming no one else would be within the domicile, not without a meeting called – He stopped dead at the center of the incline, however, as a light shown, already cast into embers and ether. For an instant, he thought about intruders, about guards, about bestial, barbaric things already clustered in his hands, and he could throw them, harpoon them, savage them until the whole realm was silent. Except, if they were Zariah’s men, they likely would’ve already marched up the stairs and searched the premises, harking some command and demand from the Merciless’s ridiculous ultimatums. Perhaps it was one of their own. He marched further, inclining his head, tilting it when the form came into view. “Wessex,” he uttered by way of a deep, rumbling greeting, not giving away the gravity of his mercurial thoughts; finally reaching the bottom and taking his time, meticulously placing the weapons in designated corners. Then he turned his lantern light down to his side, out of her eyes, addressing her. “You missed our latest meeting.” Just a statement, not a direct inquiry as to where she was; if she wanted them to know, she’d inform them – and perhaps that was why she was amidst the cellar, waiting for an opportunity. Maybe it was something else entirely – he shifted, hanging his lantern along one of the hooks by the door. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace