Deimos
Laughter hadn’t been an easy sound for the Reaper to make. Everything had been too harsh, too raw, too vast, emotions kept under wraps, tethered, tied, and locked away for ventures in isolation, for desolate irreverence and despair. Voicing his sentiments and granting them aloft to anyone at all would’ve been a difficult thing to do at the best of times; he might’ve permitted fond smiles or brief snorts, but otherwise, the rest of the world would’ve had to guess at any of his notions and sentiments. His features had been void of any nuances; nonchalant, reticent veneers, reflections of mountains and ice, marbled countenance carved from crag and unholy vehemence, prospects of disaster and deceit. Here though, they all seemed capable of plucking it out of him, granting and giving acceptance, tolerance, allowing him time, space, to flicker and fragment off in pieces, so there was light inside the walls and fortifications of darkness, so he was permitted to peek over summits and valleys, become entertained or enthralled. It was new and bewildering, and sometimes he fought not to sink into it, not to be mired in the beckoning unknown – but they kept putting him there anyway.
So this time he embraced it, unaware it was to the delight of the Harpy. He continued to scratch the luxere’s ears, listening, listening, listening, content for the moment in the fact that the blighted were healing and things could somehow begin to return to normal. At her acceptance of soothing arts, the unicorn rose from her space by the hearth, roaming closer to the Harpy, and Deimos could feel the superiority of her sentiments pluming like waves; stifling and holding back another smirk, another snicker, at the equine’s complexities. She dipped her horn, long, potent, powerful, dusted at the top with a varnish of blue, extending assuaging, mending properties, powerful enough to not need touch, unraveling it from her ethers, from her incantations, from her enchantments, layer upon layer of curative properties. Zuriel already had her days full with Deimos’ partiality and preference for involving himself in danger, and with Kiada close at hand, the reassurances weren’t there. Luckily, she didn’t seem to mind, and would only share a few smug looks.
Thereafter, as Deimos happily munched, he’d only swallowed a few bites when her response flickered through the flavors. He ceased chewing momentarily, lowering a false glare, a narrowing of his eyes that noted his lack of humor in the jest; but otherwise suited and gratified that she was clearly getting better, enough to crack jokes. “I would not be surprised…” he proffered in response, a shrug to his shoulders as she reassured; continuing to dive headfirst into the pastry. Then he tilted his head, avian again, pondering the hour. “Do you want some breakfast?”
So this time he embraced it, unaware it was to the delight of the Harpy. He continued to scratch the luxere’s ears, listening, listening, listening, content for the moment in the fact that the blighted were healing and things could somehow begin to return to normal. At her acceptance of soothing arts, the unicorn rose from her space by the hearth, roaming closer to the Harpy, and Deimos could feel the superiority of her sentiments pluming like waves; stifling and holding back another smirk, another snicker, at the equine’s complexities. She dipped her horn, long, potent, powerful, dusted at the top with a varnish of blue, extending assuaging, mending properties, powerful enough to not need touch, unraveling it from her ethers, from her incantations, from her enchantments, layer upon layer of curative properties. Zuriel already had her days full with Deimos’ partiality and preference for involving himself in danger, and with Kiada close at hand, the reassurances weren’t there. Luckily, she didn’t seem to mind, and would only share a few smug looks.
Thereafter, as Deimos happily munched, he’d only swallowed a few bites when her response flickered through the flavors. He ceased chewing momentarily, lowering a false glare, a narrowing of his eyes that noted his lack of humor in the jest; but otherwise suited and gratified that she was clearly getting better, enough to crack jokes. “I would not be surprised…” he proffered in response, a shrug to his shoulders as she reassured; continuing to dive headfirst into the pastry. Then he tilted his head, avian again, pondering the hour. “Do you want some breakfast?”
i rule the stars, not the other way around
