the replays run for you

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The reality of his worth came crashing down upon him as he took his last swig – her words were a gateway to the truth, and it stung more than it should have. Here, under the gall and might of bewilderment, unfamiliarity, and keen ignorance, he was nothing. Before, he’d been a tower, a Colossus, a beast, wreaking havoc and calling for war, piercing skulls, leaving bones to bleach beneath the sun, stealing the last moment of an enemy, waiting for the reign of terror to begin again. Before, he’d been a heathen, a Reaper, a living, breathing, moving sword, a weapon for kings and queens, bending the knee for the slightest chance to triumph, conquer, and devour – falling apart in the rain, in the ashes, in the embers of everything that could’ve been and never would be again. In the present, he was just one more figure thrown haphazardly in the shade, disregarded dust and muscle, flesh and sinew, haunted and kindled, incensed with no direction, no guidance, no significance. He was among many of the futile, rummaging for a scrap of information, for the taste of a meal, for the sensation of purpose beyond the walls of confusion and discord. It was sobering; back into moments of gangly years where he didn’t know how to swing a cutlass, where he’d yet to learn the feeling of defeat or victory, where he hadn’t quested for glory, where he hadn’t embodied sojourn after sojourn, bloodlust after bloodlust. Thrown straight into the den of lions without cutlasses, knives, or daggers; just his strength and convictions was an eye-opening experience, and he knew he couldn’t simply stay here for eternity, behind bar walls, drinking the anguish away (it always came back; the pain was his own form of torture; not enough, too little, too late). “I was a soldier,” he started, looking at his empty glass and shifting it back and forth on the surface; gaze shifting towards the cat for a moment or two, withholding a shark bark of laughter that threatened to form over his mouth. She likely would’ve surmised his occupation long before he announced it. “I am uncertain of what is required here.” There weren’t any riots in the streets, danger and treachery didn’t loom thick over his senses; but there were other things about, mysteries and enigmas, threads requiring untangling, the buzzing of too many bees and flies. Her intentions were amusing, likely meant to spin him out of the inner turmoil clasping over his frame again; the figure toppled, Rhodes fallen to its sea-bed. It took a moment for him to utter a quiet chuckle, a quirk of his brow again when his stare returned back to hers. “Not much of a long-term plan.” The heathen stretched, leaned back against the chair he’d snagged, gave her full attention, drink and glass no longer in hand. “And after? What talents do you possess?” An echo, a refrain, he didn’t know he’d uttered – cyclical, inevitable strikes and chords, the same rumbling tone, the same curious endeavors, beasts trapped and locked in redundant rimes and reasons. The mountains called on his breath, on his air, and a sudden homesickness filled his soul – everything was bitter, and it hurt in its rancorous edge, in its blunt accord.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}