New Faces

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Zuriel was an instant queen, some long-lost monarch or sovereign, a high, mocking deluge of mischief and amusement bolstered and brewed through their connection, and all he could really do was sigh and sneer; she had a large enough head to begin with, pompous, superior, a smug, resemblance to some unmarked deity, believing themselves better than the rest. Though she’d never refused to heal anyone, she had turned her nose up at certain individuals, and he half-wondered if there would come a time where she failed to oblige with his requests. For now, there was a semblance of his irritation sent through their accord, and she snorted in response, but lessened the irritating movements and motions. At least she appeared to amuse the stranger, who continued their sketching, artistic motions flying across paper. Despite Jigano insisting the General was amongst the oeuvres and masterpieces, he steadfastly refused the comment; preferring to enamel and warp designs across armor, battlements, and weaponry, signs and signatures of their owners, symbols of refuge in audacity. He also had no ambition to cultivate talents any further than those sculpted whims and means; preferring the art of the battlefield, his canvas and tapestry of ichor and blood, a flowing crimson rivulet of disaster, annihilation, and ruin. Love the attitude gained a snort from the beast; since he didn’t have to oblige or work with Zuriel for eternity. In truth, Deimos was content with the bond, with the musings, with the strange machinations coiled between them – the first and only experience he’d had amongst a companion of his own. Helovia’s treacheries were too dark, too dim, too potent to have ever afforded another pressing into his wake. Caido apparently allowed and permitted him to venture into other means. “Her name is Zuriel,” an offering; then realizing he hadn’t extended his, after refilling his canteen, he concocted to the same introductions. “I am Deimos.” The Sword, the Reaper, the General, the monolith, the mountain, and all other walks of ilk and legend curled against his frame, his figure, his outreach. “You might find the Artist’s Guild to your liking then.” Once they were out of LongNight’s upheaval, once they found a way to navigate around destruction (his hands had already claimed enough for one day – fire pooling in their palms). master of nothing place; of recoil and grace