New Faces

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame With the sketch pad no longer in use, Zuriel huffed around the perimeter of the room, seeking out whatever other idle curiosities she could enamor herself with. The beast, for all his purposes, hadn’t thought to be drawn into further conversation, arming himself with further supplies to disperse amongst those not yet in these corridors, and then to amble off into some other dark corner and brood, brew, contemplate for a while. It was a constant, irritating set of exasperation holding him together on frayed ends and bindings, perseverance, and sheer, obstinate, irreverent defiance. Restless and caged, like a predator, like an animal, intending to wind and ghost his way through the halls until he’d satisfied some contemptuous portion of his mind, unsettled on the flanked contortions of fire, of the inferno still running through his veins. Only diligence and some other portion of reserves enabled him to remain there, taut and tethered and rigid, jaw clenching and unclenching, seeking out either vehemence or the shadows to wallow within. He still listened as discussion shifted around guilds; were he in a better mood, he might have described the one he resided within: Artisan’s, crafters, those who could make and create and shift worlds between palms. Instead, he simply tilted his head, a note of inquiry amidst his silence and Oliver’s continued conversation. “You will have time in Flowerbirth.” If they all survived this mess. There was a future out there, hours ticking gradually, gradually by, until he could unleash some hell out from his fingertips, before he exploded, before he rampaged. The subject lancing its way upon him though was another measure to consider; but it wasn’t deep, not riveting, not imploring past anything other than the surface level. Indifference made up his features in clear, tangible methods, the piercing set of his eyes flickering elsewhere, upon walls, upon hearths, upon candlelight. “I am the General. I run the militia.” Of two; one being himself, the other Loren, and what a damned fine mess they’d orchestrated in defending the people of the Hollowed Grounds. Their preparations hadn’t been worth a damn except two burnt-down buildings and a host of dead, lost souls still roaming out there amongst the eternal night. “We barter here. No currency.” Trade for goods, for services; or in his case, and seemingly in many others, simply giving the nuances away. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace