DEIMOS
the reaper
Most of his impending trepidation didn’t lie along the ominous vitriol of the Spire: he understood a majority of the stone’s prowess and might, the tenacity of venom slipping into lungs, the rippling effect of demolition and devastation. There was a goal in mind beneath its enmity and hostility, its open, scarring wounds, its infectious plague upon the rest of the world: the blight had to be eradicated, extinguished, for lives upon lives upon lives; individuals, gods, and worlds alike.
The dread was in telling Amalia their intentions of going back down again.
The Colossus truly debated on telling her at all: sneaking into the chambers without her knowledge, instigating and invoking deadly force, minatory enchantments, upon some hostile plants, and returning. But he knew there’d be no way all of them would come back without some form of marred moment, some emblem of massacre, some strand or folly that would give them away. The beast had done things for so long on his own, that the consideration almost felt right, almost felt normal, almost felt like the king on his throne, indifferent towards how many bellowed at him to cease and desist; destroy, destroy, destroy.
But she wouldn’t forgive him. He probably wouldn’t forgive himself either; furtive, specious, duplicitous, and secretive machinations were not the greatest standards for a relationship.
A portion of him also feared she’d want to go with them, straight back into the denizens of hell, the Stygian river with its smoke, fumes, and warrens. He couldn’t let that happen either.
So it was with growing disquiet and unease that he found himself in front of the bakery, Zuriel behind him, the usual haughty look removed from her features. As he glanced back at her, he only saw her nod, an imploring movement, maw indicating the door, trust pervading into his senses; her tone quiet, ardent, faithful. He sighed, turning back towards the aperture, wondering if it’d be better if he just hit his head against it. Instead, his hand went to the knob, and with the smell of pastries informing him she was inside, he opened the entrance, poking his head in. “Amalia?” The call was an affectionate murmur, not giving away the unease postured over his shoulders.
The dread was in telling Amalia their intentions of going back down again.
The Colossus truly debated on telling her at all: sneaking into the chambers without her knowledge, instigating and invoking deadly force, minatory enchantments, upon some hostile plants, and returning. But he knew there’d be no way all of them would come back without some form of marred moment, some emblem of massacre, some strand or folly that would give them away. The beast had done things for so long on his own, that the consideration almost felt right, almost felt normal, almost felt like the king on his throne, indifferent towards how many bellowed at him to cease and desist; destroy, destroy, destroy.
But she wouldn’t forgive him. He probably wouldn’t forgive himself either; furtive, specious, duplicitous, and secretive machinations were not the greatest standards for a relationship.
A portion of him also feared she’d want to go with them, straight back into the denizens of hell, the Stygian river with its smoke, fumes, and warrens. He couldn’t let that happen either.
So it was with growing disquiet and unease that he found himself in front of the bakery, Zuriel behind him, the usual haughty look removed from her features. As he glanced back at her, he only saw her nod, an imploring movement, maw indicating the door, trust pervading into his senses; her tone quiet, ardent, faithful. He sighed, turning back towards the aperture, wondering if it’d be better if he just hit his head against it. Instead, his hand went to the knob, and with the smell of pastries informing him she was inside, he opened the entrance, poking his head in. “Amalia?” The call was an affectionate murmur, not giving away the unease postured over his shoulders.
I am comfortable with violence
