gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos had more than enough memories to give to anyone: a multitude of them unhappy, discontented, haunting things, more poignancy and anguish than any sublime, happy measures. They’d steadily begun to restore themselves, but then others took shape: new, fresh horrors aligned against sepulchers and catacombs, dreams that wilted, decayed. They’d likely poison anyone who dared to ingest them, so they stayed within his sanction, detrimental only when he allowed them to surface against his mind, only when they lingered for too long in one place – a rush of screams, a bellow of cries, too many final breaths extinguished in his ears. Devilish contortions were returned, and he was eerily reminded of Kiada again – firebrand children with their carnivorous wiles, and how he only openly encouraged the disasters and mayhem because it was all he knew too – implored them to go after ambitions with gnashing teeth and grasping hands. He’d learned to be meticulous and methodical, but sometimes it didn’t matter; not when family and friends were threatened, not when destruction and ruin were imminent, not when the world threatened to pluck and take and snag things from him again. Then, he wasn’t careful at all; ruthless, heedless, an irreverent rapture of warrior ministrations and rapacious, seething torrents: a flame beneath the cold. At her predilections and predictions, he chuckled; his mannerisms, his knowledge, speaking of other regions (which meant – she must’ve been from elsewhere too – the first measure she’d stoked within). He’d given himself away, but the Naturals all knew he wasn’t one of them – had made it clear early on, howling into the void as barriers toppled. “Yes. I come from other worlds.” Plural, for he’d been born and raised in Isilme (twice; on the bastion of reincarnation and resurrections), then honed his harpooning craft in Helovia, settled upon rime and mountains and the snow before perishing. “Similar, in a way. We had magic, gods, and unicorns. No Fae from what I can recall,” he tilted his head, arching his brow. Perhaps some could’ve been like sprites and fey, whimsical, mercurial, but he’d never been one for stupid games and tricks, snares catching on his limbs. His deceptions had been political or war-framed in nature, purposeful, meaningful, intending success for his kingdom and no one else’s. “Some kitsunes instead.” A wry grin settled on his smile, as if he were one himself (not at all; but had seen enough of their tails and incantations to understand their capabilities, their misdeeds). The Sword’s inquiry followed, curiosity forever binding him. “Where are you from?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace