New Faces

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Zuriel, because she was Zuriel (and vain, smug, superior, gifted healer of the forest), immediately noticed her likeness being rendered across the stranger’s paper. Instead of snorting her disapproval, she carried herself a little higher, a broader notion of a lifted head, horn pointed straight towards the ceiling, eyes dark and alight with mischief. Were it not beneath her, she might’ve pranced along the hall and across the wooden floors, showing off her impressive nature and movements; instead she slunk closer and closer, attempting to peek. The Sword felt the alteration in his companion’s mood – the press of eminence, of her regal, formidable nature, turning around from his search for provisions to simply be aware, cognizant, of whatever was occurring. He leaned against the nearest wall and openly stared, before rolling his eyes at her antics and returning to his prior ministrations. “Now you will never be rid of her,” he mentioned off-handedly to the stranger and his sketchbook, hands locating and pinpointing a canteen. He opened the top, turning back to the artist, tilting his head a fraction in idle curiosity, better than the brooding, brewing machinations otherwise occupying his mind, before raising the container to his mouth, silent again in his endeavors of quenching thirst. It pooled and flowed down the back of his previously-aching throat, no longer courted by fire, by smoke, by fumes, but enough of the memory remaining to leave an impact, a certain dissatisfaction. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace