to take arms against a sea of troubles

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He had no devotion to any gods – ever – the segment of celestial beings and himself never forging a connection: his were to people, to his own broken, brindled soul. They were to Amalia, to Rexanna and Kiada, to flickers of family he could hold onto and impart within when the notions had once been so long gone and fruitless; Remi, Jigano, Rory, Wessex, all clambering together when years before he’d been nothing, nothing, nothing, a detached, forlorn figure, waiting for the right moments to be consigned to his personal oblivion, hell and hell again. He wouldn’t turn against them unless they did the same to him – the thought wasn’t even there, not caught in his snares, not layered in his brutality – barbarity had only ever been for those who made themselves his enemies, his adversaries, his rivals. The woman before him wasn’t any of those things. But their spiral on information gathering continued, escalating to the open forum, to the whirl of vitriol, vehemence, and hostilities dragged on by gaping mouths and tacticians. “That was another mess,” he sighed, eyes drifting along the ceiling as he replayed the scene in his head. “There were several who made loud, callous claims towards Zariah,” but the slight smile on his features indicated the spectacle might have been amusing, for only so long. “But their words fell on deaf ears. She always had something to refute, or a way to finagle around the answer. A politician. A manipulator.” His fathoms reached and riveted back to the Ascended again. “At one point she allowed for a Natural advisor, saying Rexanna could be the Outlander one. You and Rory were nominated.” His jaw clenched, a deeper exhale loitering through his frame; the smile long since disappeared. “Then she took that away too.” Dangling hopes and threads; pondering if she proffered the notion simply to watch the looks on their faces when she snared it back – a power play, old as time. It was minor along the state of all the other things she’d managed to hiss and snap. It was intriguing to find Wessex’s kind was even less welcome in the Greatwood, especially considering their initial greetings by Delah and company when they’d come to grab their allies. He didn’t know enough about all the sizzling contortions and connections from god to god, from new to primordial; the notion that spurned his interest was her final sentence, the depths of his fathoms coming to light. “Anything of worth?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace