prehistoric

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts For a moment, in the mannerisms, in the artful knack for ignoring the actual notions, Deimos was reminded of Thranduil. The Thief always had a particular asinine way about him, deliberately misleading or striving for information; the Reaper had treated him with about the same amount of nonchalance, but because the gilded beast had been talented and useful in his tactics, in his machinations (even when he was particularly irksome), he was permitted to stay amongst mountains and other vicious parameters. He arched his brow again at some unknown insinuation, the stranger’s fingers wiggling (some notion of purloining once more?), leaving him not much to work with but the duplicitous void. It wasn’t making him laugh. Instead, he meandered away, drawing his attention back to the bucket, less fish contained than before, courtesy of rat snakes. While the other would be fed, the same might not be said for whomever the meat was designated for – the Sword had merely intended to stockpile and serve as needed within whatever domicile they decided to congregate in for Long Night. “What you did is called scavenging,” or stealing, but the fiend had already made his point ages ago. Perhaps he ought to shift back and start over; though his eyes cast back upon the snake, unamused, but plotting regardless. “I could teach you. Then you would not have to depend on others.” Unless that was something he preferred to do and had fueled himself on a lifetime of it. the last of a line of lasts