DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
If he could’ve dragged his feet in some petulant pout, he might have – and though the Sword shouldered an incredible amount of distrust, distaste, amongst a myriad of other embittered, rancorous sentiments towards deities and their ilk, the notion of visiting the Voice at all leant him down a reticent path. It was something to try, something to attempt, when they’d run out of other strands to investigate. His features meandered straight back into Helovian tactics, reticent, nonchalant, appearing utterly detached and void of any notion or emotion – even if Rexanna strived to make him crack a smile. There was a trepidation, a consternation, coiling its way through his ribs, because the circulated rumors hadn’t been kind, hadn’t been prosperous, and had been their way into treacherous, deceitful paths. He once might’ve been grateful for the Voice’s role in ensuring Rexanna’s liberation from Zariah’s clutches, but now, with everything else rampaging through, blight instilled and fermenting, decaying over finer beings, roses needing to be planted, guarded, and the rest of the chaos entangled over their world – his opinions were skewed. The beast wasn’t even aware of where a shrine to the Voice was, following after Rexanna’s slight grins, winding only portions of the Atheneum he had yet to meander through, only proffering small, nearly inaudible sighs expanding through his chest, through his lungs, a swift inhale as he pondered the depths of roles and upheavals, how seditious things had become, undermining, underpinning thoughts taut and clambering around his meticulous mind.
Had she sought to infect them all? Had she meant to extinguish all other races? Had she intended to slink her poison, her vitriol, her might into the rest of them, until the Ascendeds took over? Until it was only them remaining, existing in spite and strife?
Hundreds of inquiries circled his machinations, and he had a feeling none of them would be answered – not to him. His eyes watched as Rexanna pulled open shelves, narrowing his gaze at the obsidian orb, the collection of offerings surrounding; as if it were tucked away, unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Would anyone notice if it was broken, misshapen, mauled? Or would anyone be capable – too protected, too nourished, too required and needed by its individuals? Seditious, mutinous, he offered nothing except a fought-off sneer, channeling calm and composure, standing behind the once-Thief, only slightly tilting his head at replenishment; awaiting some inevitable reeling of being ignored entirely, or another dreadful conclusion.
