Before the storm

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

If the inquiry felt like an echo of their strangled, suffocating past, then that was more on Jigano’s thoughts and irritation; Deimos displayed nothing of outward exasperation and a building, rising temper. There was no wrath or abhorrence sizzling on his tongue. There was no warped presence of his molten infernos, the thawing of ice and the rapacious, emboldened sear of fire. If anything was exhibited, it was curiosity, blue eyes neither narrowed or widened, but steadfast in their foundations, in the way his machinating mind worked, coiled, and contorted. Kiada had been vague in her insinuations and descriptions of her quest, likely leaving details and particulars out to leave him in the dust or not to grow in consternation, apprehension, or overprotective veils; so he listened as he paced over to the hearth, Zuriel obliging him with a nod and a narrowed stare at the bard, crouching and poking at the fire, unsettling some of the logs so they drifted down in a heap of embers, catching flame again. Given a song almost sounded odd, peculiar, but here, in the winds of Caido, where gods lurked in mysterious, enigmatic ways, perhaps strains and refrains were more than just lyrics and stanzas, tunes and harmonies. It held power, Ludo’s, and his gaze swung back to the Sage as he described the purpose, offering his mortal assistance, a quest and given a lantern to catch and capture souls, returning to death. In all of this, the monolith was silent, coming to understand the role the other man would play – keeper of the entity while Kiada was the slayer. He proffered naught on the subject of reaping presences already thought lost; of all those he’d maimed along the way, of the desolation and expanse, of what it would take to consign oblivion to something, someone, cherished. So he nodded, a notion of comprehension in the abyss; eyes staring back at the fire, before rising again at Jigano’s next set of words. They’d had enchanted armor in Helovia too – Deimos had never worn much of it. His frame spoke those stories, scars and lines, traces of brutality, barbarity returned upon his adversaries. War was war, invasions were invasions, and sometimes there was no time to suit himself up for the inevitable swing of a knife, dagger, or sword; Caido didn’t lend him as much strength or power, so he might make do the next time they came into battle, into the unknown. A thought in the back of his mind, saved and savored for upcoming vitriol. Relying on magic was a thing here too – those hissed at for being Abandoned wanted for their abilities just the same. “You are welcome to any of the armor there,” pointing at the pile he’d already begun on the table – if Jigano was inclined. There was bound to be something that fit him, and if not, the Sword could make adjustments. He listened to the next motions – distances, a favoring towards archery with more automated contortions – the beast didn’t have any, preferring the longbow, but while Jigano could root through the chainmail and metal pieces, he could oblige making the munitions. His palms were drawn together and then maneuvered outward, the same gilded glow produced between them as before, the golden shape becoming more and more tangible by the seconds. Therein, produced quickly, swiftly, was a copper-hued crossbow, the mechanism for loading, drawing back, and firing all contained. He handed it to the bard, and then set about contorting a quiver of arrows, and a shield too, artifacts and emblems crafted with his careful, quiet predilection, portions of ivory foxes and pale ravens melded down at the bottom, hidden, tucked away. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate