we're all killers
Twists and turns had conspired through miniscule days and ridiculous notions; the notice board a fury, the events piercing, and no amount of clarity in sight. As the sunset lingered, as the evening shuddered, he took his time in presiding about the fireplace, restacking pieces of wood, listening to the crackle of the embers and the pop, sizzle of the dried timber being consumed and devoured – eyes on that while his mind buzzed with every preamble and action. Zariah was gone. Remi and Ronin were married. Amalia had been spared from arrest warrants. Jigano was King. It seemed like everything had been tied together without any other direction; the turmoil lifted for a turn. He had his doubts. He had his calculations. But he had his curiosities too – but presumed they would wait until the next day, and the next after that, before something else reared its ugly, treacherous head.
Zuriel, occupying the front of the hearth, raised her head for a single moment – the emblem of her eyes cast upon the door, ears flicking, and so he followed her movements. Someone coming, she announced through their bond, then promptly lowered her head back to her curled forelegs.
Perhaps not something worth worrying about then?
He didn’t have much time to consider any consternation; no sooner had her warning gone off, then there was knock along the threshold. He didn’t bother asking who – if the unicorn didn’t sense danger, then perhaps he shouldn’t either. He’d had visitors often as of late (bizarre, strange even, for a man who’d once preferred the clearest rings of desolation and isolation), but with insurrection, with comings and goings of crowns and monarchs, it shouldn’t have been a surprise.
He rose from his position, striding over and opening the aperture, to find Rexanna before him. Something was off though, different, altered, and he narrowed his eyes in speculation, stare scrutinizing, examining, a splinter, a fracture, a fissure of apprehension brimming along his brain (had she been hurt, morphed, scalded in some way? Was that why she was here?). “Rexanna,” and he opened the door wider, allowing her to slip inside if she wished; no outer layers of clothing to shelter from the cold should’ve been his first warning sign. “Come in.” The warrior’s stare went to the shadows, in case there were lurking beings, in case there were tremulous, carnivorous things creeping along the outskirts or the woods. Once she’d come inside, he shut the opening, cutting off an onlooker’s potential for information gathering. He, on the other hand, shuffled sideways towards his kitchen, arms folded, an arch to his brow as he continued a perusal of her state. “What have you done now?” It was a joking measure; because he appreciated that she did arrive at his doorstep in whatever capacity. It was something they’d always done – exchanges, trades, bartering, information for information, duplicity for strength.
Zuriel, occupying the front of the hearth, raised her head for a single moment – the emblem of her eyes cast upon the door, ears flicking, and so he followed her movements. Someone coming, she announced through their bond, then promptly lowered her head back to her curled forelegs.
Perhaps not something worth worrying about then?
He didn’t have much time to consider any consternation; no sooner had her warning gone off, then there was knock along the threshold. He didn’t bother asking who – if the unicorn didn’t sense danger, then perhaps he shouldn’t either. He’d had visitors often as of late (bizarre, strange even, for a man who’d once preferred the clearest rings of desolation and isolation), but with insurrection, with comings and goings of crowns and monarchs, it shouldn’t have been a surprise.
He rose from his position, striding over and opening the aperture, to find Rexanna before him. Something was off though, different, altered, and he narrowed his eyes in speculation, stare scrutinizing, examining, a splinter, a fracture, a fissure of apprehension brimming along his brain (had she been hurt, morphed, scalded in some way? Was that why she was here?). “Rexanna,” and he opened the door wider, allowing her to slip inside if she wished; no outer layers of clothing to shelter from the cold should’ve been his first warning sign. “Come in.” The warrior’s stare went to the shadows, in case there were lurking beings, in case there were tremulous, carnivorous things creeping along the outskirts or the woods. Once she’d come inside, he shut the opening, cutting off an onlooker’s potential for information gathering. He, on the other hand, shuffled sideways towards his kitchen, arms folded, an arch to his brow as he continued a perusal of her state. “What have you done now?” It was a joking measure; because he appreciated that she did arrive at his doorstep in whatever capacity. It was something they’d always done – exchanges, trades, bartering, information for information, duplicity for strength.
DEIMOS
