who we are and all that we're trying to be
Thank you for the kindness of your offer traced over his ears, caused his head to snap back up; remembering, recollecting, times when there was naught kind about him, savagery over compassion, cold, chilling malevolence contorted over his rigid frame, animosity in his gaze, heathen brushstrokes in his movement, the swing of a sword screaming and seething acrimony. He didn’t reflect on the change, not now, but rather on the tones of the other man, pondering the lengths in which he’d gone to alter, if he’d lost the anarchy, if he’d misplaced the depravity, if he’d forgotten the stained, vile, deplorable regions and reach of his scathing corruptions. “You are welcome,” he hastened instead of the series of inquiries spiraling along his machinations, the Machiavellian pursuits, persisting in the absence of danger and alarm. The timbre signified both responses – welcome for the information, welcome to ask questions, because he’d been there, standing beneath the Spire, hastened out into the brindled, brandished unknown – and the first place he’d gone to hadn’t been the woods (it’d been the bar). His own contorted and curled too, curiosity either contributing to his ruin or heightening it, arching a brow in its singular possession. “Where did you come from?”
The natural, inherent method of magic, so familiar to him now, might’ve stunned the fellow man, while he thought naught of it. It was with a chirrup, a cheerful glee, and as the Reaper glanced down, he muffled a smile. “It depends. I used to only be able to create small objects.” He surveyed the cart, not tiny or miniscule, shrugging. “I have gained magic since I arrived here.” The mountain couldn’t ascertain why either; just a byproduct of this particular earth, granting, christening, anointing, and blessing while still taking from beneath their noses. “One of my friends can create artifacts with magic imbedded.” Friend sounded right; that’s what Remi was – far more gifted and talented than the Sword. The stranger would be far more impressed with those notions and motions.
In the quiet, with pulled apart rib cages and stripped insides, he continued his hushed work, leaning down to grab hold of the carcass, transferring it to the cart. Then he wiped his hands off a rag along his belt, as if the blood would ever leave, lifting his gaze to the shifter again. “Follow me,” and for the first time he recognized beacon lines; him hastening others forward, and he set his jaw, uncertain. If he wished, the Attuned could ensure the deer stayed put as Deimos pulled it along over moss, rocks, and rubble.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
