Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
Loren was sharper; angles and bones, swept along marrow and tissue accentuating hollowed portions, and the Sword wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant, but it was likely not a positive sanction to their already tense intentions. So he waited in the silence, listening to the sounds of movement from within the domiciles, rustling motions then spun into quiet, inaudible measures, an ax falling, the apprehension of reality stinging, nettling, and settling. As the door opened, her eyes appeared steady, flickering from Loren to him, an undaunted expression, and he met it in return with a warrior’s stare. Only for a moment did his gaze segment upon the sword, the way her hand rested there, the preparation for anything and everything keen in his muscles, bunched, coiled, taut, and tethered, capable of bursting into any direction or movement; a predator’s swiftness. He noted the boys too, the proximity, the way they tucked themselves back – smart, reading into the underlying tides.
“The Queen has given us a warrant for your arrest.” His voice was calm, composed, one born from the ether of mountains, a stoic vibe, steady and stalwart, there to complete their assignment. One hand remained still, but ready, while the other retrieved the document from inside his furs, unveiling it for her to read, but not to take, not leaving his palms even as it unfolded, the weight of a monarch’s words pressed into the paper. “You are charged with threatening a member of the community and the Ascended race.” And in those moments, his stare didn’t leave her; watching, waiting, for something to press into vitriol, vehemence, or acceptance; but he rarely believed in the latter. There were no antagonistic bounties tucked into his vocals, collected and self-possessed, intending to ease the knives and daggers in the air. “We are to take your weapons and jewelry, where they will be put into safekeeping.” Deimos respected anyone’s munitions – they wouldn’t be scattered or scorned upon, tucked away until these moments were resolved. “The children will be unharmed.” He paused, then proffered an option. “Would you like them taken to Phoebe?” Or would she bother with it at all – and instead, fight, fight, fight, slash, rip, and tear her way to escape, to strive for evasion? And how, with the boys in tow? It was up in the air, and either militia member would be fervent for altercation or compliance.
“The Queen has given us a warrant for your arrest.” His voice was calm, composed, one born from the ether of mountains, a stoic vibe, steady and stalwart, there to complete their assignment. One hand remained still, but ready, while the other retrieved the document from inside his furs, unveiling it for her to read, but not to take, not leaving his palms even as it unfolded, the weight of a monarch’s words pressed into the paper. “You are charged with threatening a member of the community and the Ascended race.” And in those moments, his stare didn’t leave her; watching, waiting, for something to press into vitriol, vehemence, or acceptance; but he rarely believed in the latter. There were no antagonistic bounties tucked into his vocals, collected and self-possessed, intending to ease the knives and daggers in the air. “We are to take your weapons and jewelry, where they will be put into safekeeping.” Deimos respected anyone’s munitions – they wouldn’t be scattered or scorned upon, tucked away until these moments were resolved. “The children will be unharmed.” He paused, then proffered an option. “Would you like them taken to Phoebe?” Or would she bother with it at all – and instead, fight, fight, fight, slash, rip, and tear her way to escape, to strive for evasion? And how, with the boys in tow? It was up in the air, and either militia member would be fervent for altercation or compliance.
DEIMOS
