who we are and all that we're trying to be
Ordinarily, they likely should’ve been suspicious about packages left with no notes, but from the current trend, the powder didn’t seem to bear any harm. Instead, it curated and crafted without the means of either creation magic or something else; purposeful in its own right. His eyes flicked from Remi’s delighted features and over the pinpointed shelf of trinkets, restorations and mending properties through cracks and scratches, broken hilts (which, given the notion of how many blades, swords, and cutlasses he’d already implored into the world, it seemed fitting they’d eventually wear and tear), and the like. Silent in his observations, a scheming, scholarly mind already at work with a thousand things they could utilize the wares for, his gaze took in the notched sad-face (once again, offering no comment but stifling a chuckle), a witness as the dust conformed to the etchings, and then reverted it back – as if naught had happened.
What the Sword didn’t expect was Remi offering the bag of useful notions to him. Astounded and perplexed, for he’d already been given the practical, convenient, and effectual bag of holding, he started to form the I do not deserve it mantra behind his teeth, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing, pondering who might serve the gift better. But glancing at the alchemist’s face, and reeling along the benevolent gesture, he failed to stray too far away, or down the wayward path of unqualified notions. “Of course,” he proffered in return, swallowing the choking bile along the path of his throat, extending his palm out to accept. “Thank you,” unraveled in a humbling, gracious tone, the indentation of a smile still there, curled along his mouth, he bowed his head slightly, staring across the expanse of work tables and still not quite comprehending when and where all these compassionate people had sprung from.
Thereafter, once he was through over-analyzing acceptance, tolerance, and kindness, the sentiments of his arrival remained, not yet out in the open, finalized, or even voiced. “I am sure you are busy,” because Remi was always at someone’s beck and call, and Deimos didn’t intend to be a bother. “But I had some questions.” He paused, thinking about ruffling through his bag, then waiting – gaze swinging back up to Remi’s. “Would it be suitable for the Artisan’s Guild to be used during Long Night?” It’d been a discussion between he and Loren amidst the Greatwood, but Deimos wasn’t certain if anyone else would find it feasible, or if it had been conversed over already. He merely wanted to help with defenses, with setting something up to ease the notion of danger. The Rathskeller wasn’t tempting this time, and the Launcelyn Manor wasn’t something he was even remotely interested in.
Then he delved into his bag, rifting and rifling before drawing out Amalia’s familiar staff, placing it along the table – the reddened glow a fixture of its ethereal capacity, a ward of protection, only increased by Remi’s skills. Deimos had studied it at length, as requested per the latest meeting, but after a series of attempts and endeavors into duplicating or recreating the luxere antlers themselves, he’d had no such luck. Pointing to the antler portions, and not the staff itself (that he knew could be cloned), he inquired. “Can these be replicated?” Could they be capable weapons for Long Night, or was that a lost cause too? Were there other means and measures they could try?
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
