we're all killers
On an air of machinations, on a sweeping trend of frustration, ire, and barely controlled wrath, the beast marched. They were the strides and steps of yesteryear, savage, nefarious, deadly, contortions meant to exude his diabolical being, crafted and contorted for the simple faction of carnivore tempests and calculated ether. The direction was absolute and pinpointed, solely occupying the pathway towards the Artisan’s Guild, satchel on his back filled with the right necessities for impending discussions, conversations, and exasperation.
Because the world had decided to dig its heels in, and so the Reaper would too.
He could be stubborn, in his nature to clench his jaw and distort himself into a living, breathing piece of marble and stone – but in the right contexts. Not for glory. Not for pride. Not for folly, not for riches, not for anything other than a duty to uphold to friends, to brethren, and to allies. One of them was swiftly dropping out of the coveted comrade slots, brandishing their machinations and wiles to triumph, with everyone else scattered and left to the mercy of their own making.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t just. And he was done with the charades.
He spotted Remi’s designated stall and stand, but didn’t roam into it silently. Last he knew, the alchemist’s blindness was still in effect, and the beast had no intention of alarming or panicking the inhabitant. On a whim, he brushed a bottle of whiskey against the table, heard the telltale swish of its existence within the glass, and then placed it down in the center, pulling up a chair nearby. “Remi,” he intoned, a deep rumble that betrayed nothing but held everything, “I heard we are to discuss gas masks.”
Because the world had decided to dig its heels in, and so the Reaper would too.
He could be stubborn, in his nature to clench his jaw and distort himself into a living, breathing piece of marble and stone – but in the right contexts. Not for glory. Not for pride. Not for folly, not for riches, not for anything other than a duty to uphold to friends, to brethren, and to allies. One of them was swiftly dropping out of the coveted comrade slots, brandishing their machinations and wiles to triumph, with everyone else scattered and left to the mercy of their own making.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t just. And he was done with the charades.
He spotted Remi’s designated stall and stand, but didn’t roam into it silently. Last he knew, the alchemist’s blindness was still in effect, and the beast had no intention of alarming or panicking the inhabitant. On a whim, he brushed a bottle of whiskey against the table, heard the telltale swish of its existence within the glass, and then placed it down in the center, pulling up a chair nearby. “Remi,” he intoned, a deep rumble that betrayed nothing but held everything, “I heard we are to discuss gas masks.”
DEIMOS
