no plan survives

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos had heard the call too – the searing, molten coils in his blood, in the hollows of his blood, in the chilling aspect of his existence – but had far too many other things to watch, survey, and protect. While others had left, he maintained the Guild with Remi, the wounded, and several others, maintaining his fortification status for as long as he possibly could. The cyclical aspect of their movements and maneuvers were hard to track at any given time, and he’d spent a multitude of time pacing along the floorboards until Zuriel made herself quite clear on the aspects of her irritation. Which left him to be the one to answer the shells – a different magical aspect, but intriguing, interesting, and helpful nonetheless. He’d seen several others utilizing its means, familiar voices threading through the other side, but had yet to use it himself. When Loren’s tone sifted its way through the lines, tethers, and enchantments, the beast tilted his head, arched a brow at the request. Was he in the one currently in charge? The General’s eyes lifted over to the confines, quiet, dim, the light of the fire crackling along the hearth. Perhaps he was. He lifted the shell, speaking directly into it. “Loren. It is Deimos.” Thereafter, he could only speculate on what the summoner needed or required – a report? Was something going on? He had half a notion to ask about the Rathskeller or Cera, but would let it go for now. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace