DEIMOS
For once, the Sword was not amongst the crowd. Though he watched, waited, and lingered, narrowed eyes constantly surveying those coming and going, striving not to rankle with an odd sense of consternation at the Voice’s appearance (when or why he would’ve gained the ability to raise his hackles at such a being eluded him – could’ve been due to the blight’s spread, could’ve been due to Safrin’s wake amongst his attuned form). But there were a great many others gathered, a welcoming aspect to Rexanna and Bastien’s ceremonies, despite the ongoing push and pull of pestilence, the resentment echoing in fragments. The Penumbra’s expected pitchforks hadn’t been unleashed yet, and there were a good amount of people, himself included, who would’ve ensured none of them made it very far. He scanned the throng, the mass, the multitude again, finding Remi, an assortment of others (no Amalia yet, maybe later), the Harpy in her feathered glory – were he in her sights, he might’ve smiled in her direction, despite the ongoing stressors and chaos concocting, surrounding her form. He unleashed a small, nearly inaudible sigh, then turned his attentions to Rexanna.He’d cleaned himself up – no armor, no working clothes, suited again (since now he had a part in the movements and motions, couldn’t stand by the wayside like prior engagements), hair tied back in its residual bun. But nothing and no one would outshine Rexanna, and with the depths of his smile, he proffered his arm when she was ready, tending to his commitments and promises.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
