DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Nothing. The Sword was so used to it by now that the notion doesn’t even simmer or spiral against him; he’d half-expected silence and its deafening contortions. Not worth it, not enough sunk into his bones, between measures of relief that he wouldn’t have to see her, and other consternations that, once again, they’d received naught for answers. “Sorry,” he began, a routine, a habit, of making apologies when others led him to shrines and temples, presuming his presence was the reason why they received a non-response. He arched a brow, watching, waiting, as Rexanna still appeared to grant the sphere some respect with a curtsy (he committed no such thing – narrowed his eyes and brooded, staring menacingly at the object, as if he could burst it with just his caustic stare), then turning, and shrugging at him. She is not coming - not a surprise. He shrugged in return, though was befuddled to understand and contemplate the notion that she’d heard them.
And he really didn’t want to try again. He didn’t want anything to do with that damned goddess and her spread of disease; but for Rexanna’s presence and efforts, he simply nodded, intending to yield to her movements, and preside out of the area.
