For the moment he was an aloof, nonchalant predator, fully aware another was in his presence, but not bothered by the essence sketching its way through the stacks, muffled mouse steps layered in soft, dulcet motions. They weren’t heavy or violent, potent or condemning, so it appeared as if he paid no mind to the movements of another; cold and detached, gaze focused entirely on tomes, his hand reaching to snag a dark covered volume, brushing his fingers against the hardened exterior. Some of the inscriptions had seen better days, paper thin and light, portions mottled and yellowed with age, but the character of its topic remained, and his eyes stole across several lines of the passage, body leaning towards lantern light and the day’s shrinking rays, hoping to catch more of the depths and fathoms while the stranger pressed nearer. The Reaper felt her intonations, sharp, rasping, and caustic as it reverberated through the desolate room, forcing him to lift his gaze from the pages and settle the piercing, penetrating depths on the woman behind him.
Deimos half-expected a dagger to come shooting from her stare or garments; would’ve welcomed it, most likely, eager and fervent for a fight, for a distraction, from anything other than the ravenous listlessness grasping at his figure. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was being accused of, but the more he studied, the more he examined, still, silent, a quiet, stoic, reticent shadow, he noted and noticed a certain apprehension and wariness in her vigilant glare. It was a familiar look directed at him, the general public forever unsure, concerned, presuming he was there to wreak havoc, to devastate, to savage and mutilate the surroundings. Depending on the location, he might’ve done just that, but not here. He wouldn’t disturb the sanctity of knowledge, took to it because it was wisdom and sagacity, hovered and remained there because he craved awareness, comprehension, and cognition of this world he’d entered, of this sovereignty that held him tied and tethered. He yearned for proficiency in many things; ignorance was not a thing to murk and meddle around in. “Information,” he proceeded, turning back to her (where the sun peeked its rays at her and he noticed more than denunciatory tones: gold and angles, sharper outlines and sketches) with an arched brow, then lowering his focus back to the text still honorably held in his palms, as if he intended to resume his reading without further interference.
Then, in a blinding light of the obvious, the Reaper realized she might’ve been more than an interloper; a guardian of the shrine, sacrificing her time and patience to deal with one she assumed was there to proceed in either violence or nonsense. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and lifted the layers of impassivity from his stare, tilting his skull in another act of idle curiosity. “Do you run this library?” The words were coated in the lightest of reverence, as if the athenaeum were not partially destroyed, as if the study didn’t hold states of ruin, beheld in admiration and awe.
