Deimos
A nod, an acceptance of assistance; tides changed and turned over a series of years. Though he’d often bestowed support and reinforcements amidst Helovia, it’d been with a Reaper’s turn: a chisel, an axe, a scythe, a sword, death and desecration materials, not building or constructive. Abductions loosened to battles, challenges shifted to invasions, and then there were all the other dramatic, ridiculous nuances laden in between. Not that here was much different – but there were less siege and assault plans, more opening of shops, of wares, and then the mottled flairs and fires amongst the rabble.
But violence, born to it, laden with it, sometimes drowning in its avarice, in its terror, in its vehemence, struck and rivuleted into contortions of their old ways, difficult habits to parse away even with years spread out from their torrents and tempests. They would always hold some of its power, of its jurisdiction in their bones, had contorted and been created out of its pervading maelstroms and convicted chaos; indulging in the irreverent rapture of ruin with steady hands and colossal immorality. At some point, they’d likely be no better here, caught in the tethers and lines of the past, running, rampaging, into the denizens of doom and damnation; he’d already delved into danger more than once in this realm, like it was a past time, like it was a diversion from everything else, when it was just normalcy. His eyes were laden with mischief, with devil-may-care, piercing quandaries, back to drawn, smoking lines and war orchestrations, insinuations of challenges that might lay ahead, a shift in attentions, like primordial beacons of conspiracies and their soulless characteristics. No tents here to keep their secrets covered; his residence the insinuation of secrets and furtive motives. “What would you like to do there?” The smirk spoke far more volumes than his voice ever could: besides explore, besides take, besides abolish a certain individual? Weren’t all those unspoken layers, weren’t those all clear, concise truths?
But violence, born to it, laden with it, sometimes drowning in its avarice, in its terror, in its vehemence, struck and rivuleted into contortions of their old ways, difficult habits to parse away even with years spread out from their torrents and tempests. They would always hold some of its power, of its jurisdiction in their bones, had contorted and been created out of its pervading maelstroms and convicted chaos; indulging in the irreverent rapture of ruin with steady hands and colossal immorality. At some point, they’d likely be no better here, caught in the tethers and lines of the past, running, rampaging, into the denizens of doom and damnation; he’d already delved into danger more than once in this realm, like it was a past time, like it was a diversion from everything else, when it was just normalcy. His eyes were laden with mischief, with devil-may-care, piercing quandaries, back to drawn, smoking lines and war orchestrations, insinuations of challenges that might lay ahead, a shift in attentions, like primordial beacons of conspiracies and their soulless characteristics. No tents here to keep their secrets covered; his residence the insinuation of secrets and furtive motives. “What would you like to do there?” The smirk spoke far more volumes than his voice ever could: besides explore, besides take, besides abolish a certain individual? Weren’t all those unspoken layers, weren’t those all clear, concise truths?
i rule the stars, not the other way around
