DEIMOS
Ultimatums from monsters, from fiends, from demons sprung out of the Voice’s experimentation – perhaps either far more intelligent or greedier than the stories and myths proclaimed. Had anyone else ever wandered so close, had anyone else ever dared? Or was this the price for the trials and attempts, an open display of nefarious properties and fiendish outlooks, a brazen trace of things beyond claws and fangs? He remained standing by the fire while he listened to the anomalies of discord, the motions and maneuvered they’d utilized simply to try and get away – bad luck or Machiavellian designs orchestrated by devilish coils. It made sense, for those that had come first, incomplete, unfinished, left to reside on their own when the evening became eternal and greedy, rapacious, avaricious for the ones who’d been rendered far more complete.
The General didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have anything to put her at ease. He didn't chide or reprimand. He didn't lecture or shake his head. Bygones were bygones, no sense in repeating the scars she likely already hurled upon herself, amongst the outward, newly hastened lines. His silence wasn’t a balm; but a devouring weight along brawn and might, the unknown a perilous void that painstakingly carved its way through any of their futile exploits. Plans had gone up in flames. Triumph had been measured in decibels of survival, ultimately, rather than their machinations for sagacity, for wisdom, for alleviating some of the accursed motions of LongNight. It was a daunting experience, over and over and over again, to not find success, but failure.
And for some reason – he remembered the mountains, because in some way they’d altered confusion into victory, and it was nearly on his lips, scattered amidst the rime, the snow, the sanction to be revered – not the Basin, never the Basin, but something else -
Her last line though, as he glanced over his shoulder, as he looked to where Zuriel still stood snorting, her eyes narrowed in suspicion, the unknown searing its way through their connections, gave him pause. The summits could wait. “Marked for what?” Were there other sinister proportions looming along the expanse? A more vile evil or vehemence pressing in amongst them, a conviction in callousness, in extended graves, in finishing what they’d started?
The General didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have anything to put her at ease. He didn't chide or reprimand. He didn't lecture or shake his head. Bygones were bygones, no sense in repeating the scars she likely already hurled upon herself, amongst the outward, newly hastened lines. His silence wasn’t a balm; but a devouring weight along brawn and might, the unknown a perilous void that painstakingly carved its way through any of their futile exploits. Plans had gone up in flames. Triumph had been measured in decibels of survival, ultimately, rather than their machinations for sagacity, for wisdom, for alleviating some of the accursed motions of LongNight. It was a daunting experience, over and over and over again, to not find success, but failure.
And for some reason – he remembered the mountains, because in some way they’d altered confusion into victory, and it was nearly on his lips, scattered amidst the rime, the snow, the sanction to be revered – not the Basin, never the Basin, but something else -
Her last line though, as he glanced over his shoulder, as he looked to where Zuriel still stood snorting, her eyes narrowed in suspicion, the unknown searing its way through their connections, gave him pause. The summits could wait. “Marked for what?” Were there other sinister proportions looming along the expanse? A more vile evil or vehemence pressing in amongst them, a conviction in callousness, in extended graves, in finishing what they’d started?
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
