DEIMOS
True – he didn’t know what to make of Loren, because the man didn’t seem to possess any token Launcelyn approaches or attributes (bold, insistent, rapacious edges), so he nodded instead, “Likewise,” uttered, even if it lacked significant meaning. The proclamation hastened from his throat but not his eyes – they were too carved in piercing guards, pondering when the threats, the ultimatums, or the vows were going to start biting into the ground and gravel. He scrutinized him once more, arching his brow at the tentative, apprehensive smile, as if they were both testing the waters, seeing what would provoke, instigate, or unleash. When naught came, because neither had crossed those lines, it was an odd assemblage of a truce.
Which Zuriel sought to interrupt by prideful intervals – threading through the puddle closest to Loren, raising her noble head as if in full inspection. He wondered, very briefly, if their bond was too strong, if some of himself was meandering into her thoughts; but she took posturing to a whole new level, widening her nares, and then blowing a harsh, almost dragon-like snort, waiting to see what the other did (nearly an agent provocateur, he could almost see a smirk hidden in her features). Then she motioned away again, as if nothing had happened at all. “Zuriel,” Deimos nodded his head in her direction, indicating her name with no other explanation (mostly because he didn’t have one).
In methodologies and comprehension of the puddles, however, both of them seemed quite lost. His visions must’ve been different, altered, because the Sword hadn’t been pained or irritated by the flashes of scenery and incantations. He’d only been all the more curious, enticed, tempted, ghosting over to another one close by, hesitating upon looking in only to answer. Illusion magic; something he imagined conjured by kitsunes and their many tails, spun along threads of deceit and trickery, into snares, into specious depths. “Nor do I,” he muttered, brows furrowing slightly in thought. “The will-o-wisps have something similar.” It could be construed as a warning, in case Loren sought continued avoidance of the nooses, traps, and nets. “I only see flashes of things: feathers, fire, water.” Then the beast shrugged, imagination long since gone from his mind; the things of boyhood, before swords, armor, and death.
Which Zuriel sought to interrupt by prideful intervals – threading through the puddle closest to Loren, raising her noble head as if in full inspection. He wondered, very briefly, if their bond was too strong, if some of himself was meandering into her thoughts; but she took posturing to a whole new level, widening her nares, and then blowing a harsh, almost dragon-like snort, waiting to see what the other did (nearly an agent provocateur, he could almost see a smirk hidden in her features). Then she motioned away again, as if nothing had happened at all. “Zuriel,” Deimos nodded his head in her direction, indicating her name with no other explanation (mostly because he didn’t have one).
In methodologies and comprehension of the puddles, however, both of them seemed quite lost. His visions must’ve been different, altered, because the Sword hadn’t been pained or irritated by the flashes of scenery and incantations. He’d only been all the more curious, enticed, tempted, ghosting over to another one close by, hesitating upon looking in only to answer. Illusion magic; something he imagined conjured by kitsunes and their many tails, spun along threads of deceit and trickery, into snares, into specious depths. “Nor do I,” he muttered, brows furrowing slightly in thought. “The will-o-wisps have something similar.” It could be construed as a warning, in case Loren sought continued avoidance of the nooses, traps, and nets. “I only see flashes of things: feathers, fire, water.” Then the beast shrugged, imagination long since gone from his mind; the things of boyhood, before swords, armor, and death.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
