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 Deimos hadn’t ever been much of a dreamer - his head hadn’t been conformed to the clouds, but stuck in the bellows of ambition. He’d learned, an avid scholar in fighting, in reading, in training, in aspirations, carving and sculpting his way through the muck and mire. His youthful, glowing smiles had been administered in the delight of soldier-craft, as he struck his wooden sword into a fellow apprentice, as he combed through ancient tomes and artifacts, as he buried his sorrows and forged on ahead. But here, he was out of place all over again, motives and impressions lost on him, too far-gone into the abyss. Perhaps he should’ve let it rest, been a listless, languid creation, drift in and out of folds, veils, and shrouds, waiting for something to happen, to appear, to guide him on his way – but it’d be out of character, to let fate alter his course. The grin remained in place, the arched brow firmly entrenched in his features, another chuckle making its way through the tavern. “You must have some goal in mind.” Insurrection, disorder, and bedlam had been his inevitable objectives and intentions, but the rest would be discovered – as he drank and relished every nuance, every sound, every sight the world had to offer; then he’d know, he’d understand, exactly what he truly craved, required, needed. The warrior wasn’t surprised when Rexanna mentioned her abilities - negotiation - and it hummed against his brain like a distant haze, a murky fog, gold, gold, and gold, impish smiles and eye-rolling tendencies, thieves and knives, the longing, the yearning, to destroy things standing in his path, barring his way. The earth and its kingdoms had never been that easy, but he’d tried; it blended and distorted, confused and bewildered – his eyes widened for a fraction, and then he blinked, pushed his glass aside, back towards the bartender, signaling he was finished in his imbibing. “Mistakes are inevitable,” he shrugged, fishing in his pockets for the last few coins to pay for his drink, nodding to indicate he’d bear Rexanna’s cost too. His whole life could be heralded as a series of errors and flaws, but the miscreant had given it a solid effort, refusing to bow down to the weight of the world lain across his shoulders. “But we should try anyway.” The soldier winked back at her for good measure, because she’d been comfortable company in the bestial slate and hold of the void, despite triggering unwanted nuances; reassurances of a time long gone (mountains, the cold, chilling taste of the wind shoved across his face, standing on top of it all with a heavy crown). “We shall see each other again,” he bobbed his head, smirked, snickered, then maneuvered towards the door, back out into the evening squall and its thousand furtive notions.

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