New Faces

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The smoke still clung to his clothes, to his soul, ashen and embered, coaled and kindled, a stoked, incensed presence stalking its way through halls and corridors. The latest exploits left him in a flux between exasperation, ire, and rancor; the wrath rising beneath his skin because he thought, he believed, they’d had a damn chance to make it through LongNight, after all their preparations, after all their attempts, without some damned Pyrrhic event. The rue was for the Monster Hunter’s Guild itself, a threshold, an aperture, he could’ve saved, the fire and flames and inferno bristling along his fingertips and palms, controlled, contorted, his and his and his, except for the monster lurking underneath. Except for the flash of fangs and the diabolical scheme of claws. Except no matter what they’d done, if he’d had anything to salvage, they still would’ve been victims of the demons, of the infidels, lurking along wood and moss, foaming and brewing and remaining under their noses. It hadn’t been his to condemn. Yet he’d done it all the same – everyone safe, everyone out, everyone racing and running to the Temple. Safety in destruction. Sanctum in upheaval. Refuge in annihilation. Perhaps all of those things should've comforted him; chaos and bedlam harking straight to his past. The General’s eyes were downcast, narrowed, brooding, brewing, scorching along the surface in his predacious stride, quick, efficient, hardly paying attention to his surroundings. He passed by several chairs and tables on his way to grab hold of a drink, some water, anything, beyond the means of his healed lungs but parched throat. If he recognized anyone, there might’ve been a brief, barren nod, before passing right by, shifting to snag something from the stored pieces. Zuriel followed, sniffing at strangers, arching her brow at one with ivory hair in particular, and then slinking behind the Sword. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace