DEIMOS
Ah, there it was, the surname he’d been waiting for. Whether or it embodied and possessed the other Launcelyn features or characteristics remained to be seen, though he’d yet to blow anything up or threaten to put the Sword in chains or prisons, so Loren was already faring better in those regards. But he listened – a maintainer of scholarly pursuits, waiting in his calm composition, either biding his time for acrimony, for hostility, for warrior munitions, or something else altogether. He ensured his features were more inscrutable now, a portrait of nonchalance and detachment, seemingly apathetic, while his mind reeled and calculations restored. He didn’t know about his history with Remi, and frankly, wasn’t going to ask, and the beast wasn’t certain of he’d made himself an enemy of Zariah, since their rebellion had been stoked, instigated, and provoked in her ignorance – out in the open now, thanks to Ronin and Wessex’s seats upon thrones. No intention of carrying on her legacy was an intriguing line, as if he didn’t harbor the weight of the crowns or scepters, returning at a time when chaos had unraveled and crises had flown from one venture to the next. The Merciless disappeared, monarchs in her place, and then the spread of blight – a singular disease to another. Instead of voicing any of these machinations, however, Deimos remained in steadfast silence, then nodded, noting his understanding – no less taut, no less rigid, not a yielding source between strangers.
Zuriel’s state and stature had suggested a lacing and lacquer of pride, her eyes glinting with a forbearing mischief – and though he didn’t roll his gaze, he certainly had to stifle the motion – Loren’s hands in an open gesture of faith and non-violence only rippled across her brow briefly. An indignant, haughty, huffed snort thereafter followed, as if she were mildly disappointed she wouldn’t be using her horn to brutalize, or her hooves to condemn. Then she placated neither man, meandering off on her own.
The conversation shifted, away from dangerous family members or daring unicorns, back to the illusions, the deceptions, the range of possibilities. The Launcelyn’s incantations were useless against them? He gave the man another studious look, as if contemplating what he held, what he contained. “What best combats illusions?” After all, Deimos had only been attempting to thwart them with death – draining them of souls, lifeless, leaving him and Ashetta lone, the last time he’d wandered into their midst (their screams, their agonies, their granules of his past lives).
As for the will-o-wisps, he nodded again, because not many deserved to share the dismal, anguishing fate of listening to horrors and the departure from reality and into despair. Along puddles and distortions though, their experiences appeared to be a mystery, more enigmatic qualms and requiems, pulses and flashes, full visions. “Like memories?” Was that what his were too – though the behemoth couldn’t proclaim a connection, a flash of impressions, towards those particular plumes (nothing like Amalia’s or Kiada’s – too gold, too brown, too foreign).
Zuriel’s state and stature had suggested a lacing and lacquer of pride, her eyes glinting with a forbearing mischief – and though he didn’t roll his gaze, he certainly had to stifle the motion – Loren’s hands in an open gesture of faith and non-violence only rippled across her brow briefly. An indignant, haughty, huffed snort thereafter followed, as if she were mildly disappointed she wouldn’t be using her horn to brutalize, or her hooves to condemn. Then she placated neither man, meandering off on her own.
The conversation shifted, away from dangerous family members or daring unicorns, back to the illusions, the deceptions, the range of possibilities. The Launcelyn’s incantations were useless against them? He gave the man another studious look, as if contemplating what he held, what he contained. “What best combats illusions?” After all, Deimos had only been attempting to thwart them with death – draining them of souls, lifeless, leaving him and Ashetta lone, the last time he’d wandered into their midst (their screams, their agonies, their granules of his past lives).
As for the will-o-wisps, he nodded again, because not many deserved to share the dismal, anguishing fate of listening to horrors and the departure from reality and into despair. Along puddles and distortions though, their experiences appeared to be a mystery, more enigmatic qualms and requiems, pulses and flashes, full visions. “Like memories?” Was that what his were too – though the behemoth couldn’t proclaim a connection, a flash of impressions, towards those particular plumes (nothing like Amalia’s or Kiada’s – too gold, too brown, too foreign).
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
