DEIMOS
Loren’s first response caused a brow to arch, if only to leave the other man uncomfortable for a moment. It was not the first time Deimos faced the morality of his incantations. But he’d lived with it for so long, had embraced the enchantments since his birth, had wielded it through different lifetimes and lifelines, that it hardly mattered to him. It was death and destruction, and so was he when the motions were required, trained and honed to harpoon, to maul, to rip, tear, and bludgeon until enemies were crushed and victory was bellowed, howled, across battlefields. A place for it, obviously settled in to counter, and he barely withheld the smirk, smothered the snort billowing along his lungs. Yes, he nearly answered, when someone threatens those I cherish, but it stuck itself somewhere his throat, too many revelations and foundations for a stranger to press within.
As for the discourse upon corresponding enchantments, he shrugged. “I trust in Vai’s powers.” His eyes looked elsewhere, glancing off into boughs, canopies, and shadows, along Zuriel’s slow, leisurely strolls, no longer a dance beside puddles. Maybe she’d lost interest, seen all there was to see. Then his gaze segmented back to Loren, proffering only raw explanations and theories. Sometimes it was all they had. “Perhaps they cancel each other out. One takes. One gives. But they cannot prosper both.” The Reaper didn’t have an inclination to test it – he’d already stuck himself in situations where it was evaluated and corresponded to: flinthopper burns along shoulders, hidden from view, taking himself to the infirmary only to discover naught mattered, given a burn salve instead when assuaging, soothing predilections had no place upon his figure. The length of his stare flickered back to Zuriel briefly. “Unicorns can heal those with life drain though,” another shrug hastened; that particular route had been discovered beneath caves and falling rocks, when he’d tried to save and had to be aided by Remi, by Isla.
As for targets and controls, he’d have to concede on that front. In another life, he might have simply blown the whole thing apart, everyone within his reach, a pervading, surrounding, malevolent force tethering them to his wiles, to his powers, to his barbaric tendencies, until they all screamed and howled and cried for mercy. He’d had no friends then; only foes, indifferent and nonchalant, chilling and coldblooded, capable of swinging swords through every throat. “Fair,” the beast acknowledged – even if that certain realm of warfare wasn’t usually in his reach or thoughts. He’d calculate and devastate, but not to such analyzing decrees and degrees; a warranted effort to keep in the back of his mind if the situation ever called for it. “If you happen to know your foe is an illusionist. Before then, it might be too late.”
Like Confutatis; a name shoved into his senses as a formidable, barbaric foe. Her manipulative efforts had been numerous, lies entangled upon lies, ensuing one of his many challenges – and upon arriving, he was met with the face of his fellow monarch. Confusion had been imminent for a moment, until senses rendered her as a fraud, a fake, duplicity because he’d been wise enough to notice, because he’d known enough to comprehend the layers unraveling around him. “Or if they cannot adapt to the circumstances.” Something missing, something misplaced, something off - Ophelia without her dragon, or a friend lacking a certain tic, a peculiar movement.
Items and artifacts meant to claw through illusions were intriguing, but only useful for those particular moments, and as the fellow mage had mentioned, only useful when there was certainty in cloaks and daggers. The Sword had naught left to offer on that front. It would require further digging, speculation, and examination.
As for the discourse upon corresponding enchantments, he shrugged. “I trust in Vai’s powers.” His eyes looked elsewhere, glancing off into boughs, canopies, and shadows, along Zuriel’s slow, leisurely strolls, no longer a dance beside puddles. Maybe she’d lost interest, seen all there was to see. Then his gaze segmented back to Loren, proffering only raw explanations and theories. Sometimes it was all they had. “Perhaps they cancel each other out. One takes. One gives. But they cannot prosper both.” The Reaper didn’t have an inclination to test it – he’d already stuck himself in situations where it was evaluated and corresponded to: flinthopper burns along shoulders, hidden from view, taking himself to the infirmary only to discover naught mattered, given a burn salve instead when assuaging, soothing predilections had no place upon his figure. The length of his stare flickered back to Zuriel briefly. “Unicorns can heal those with life drain though,” another shrug hastened; that particular route had been discovered beneath caves and falling rocks, when he’d tried to save and had to be aided by Remi, by Isla.
As for targets and controls, he’d have to concede on that front. In another life, he might have simply blown the whole thing apart, everyone within his reach, a pervading, surrounding, malevolent force tethering them to his wiles, to his powers, to his barbaric tendencies, until they all screamed and howled and cried for mercy. He’d had no friends then; only foes, indifferent and nonchalant, chilling and coldblooded, capable of swinging swords through every throat. “Fair,” the beast acknowledged – even if that certain realm of warfare wasn’t usually in his reach or thoughts. He’d calculate and devastate, but not to such analyzing decrees and degrees; a warranted effort to keep in the back of his mind if the situation ever called for it. “If you happen to know your foe is an illusionist. Before then, it might be too late.”
Like Confutatis; a name shoved into his senses as a formidable, barbaric foe. Her manipulative efforts had been numerous, lies entangled upon lies, ensuing one of his many challenges – and upon arriving, he was met with the face of his fellow monarch. Confusion had been imminent for a moment, until senses rendered her as a fraud, a fake, duplicity because he’d been wise enough to notice, because he’d known enough to comprehend the layers unraveling around him. “Or if they cannot adapt to the circumstances.” Something missing, something misplaced, something off - Ophelia without her dragon, or a friend lacking a certain tic, a peculiar movement.
Items and artifacts meant to claw through illusions were intriguing, but only useful for those particular moments, and as the fellow mage had mentioned, only useful when there was certainty in cloaks and daggers. The Sword had naught left to offer on that front. It would require further digging, speculation, and examination.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
