Deimos
Once upon a time, he’d wanted to be feared, chiseled straight out of poisonous vectors and treasonous vows, suffocating, smoldering, in his brutal ramparts and barbaric convictions. He’d yearned for the world to be intimidated by his prowess, by his potential, by all the things they knew he’d commit to – singular warnings before vanquishing acts, before demise, demise, demise sung its derisive spell through his blood and bone. He’d craved for the earth to fissure and fizzle beneath his steps, beneath his ministrations, beneath every footfall; a crack, a shudder, a quake, a league of terror and tyranny in the length of his stride, in the breath of his existence. Perhaps for a while it had worked, and his dissonance, his depravity, his detachment, had worked into his icy vestiges and incredulous forms, iniquity and immorality tied, knotted, and gnarled beneath his skin; so no one dared, so no one bothered, so no one could divide and conquer, so no one could scrape away the fortifications he’d so proudly crafted and created. You cannot have me in his unattainable, unreachable designs, in his warrior angles, in his demanding shades of abyss and gloom, damnation, oblivion, oblivion, oblivion. Little by little, those rivulets had faded, perhaps because of the people, perhaps because of the places, perhaps because after all that time, something was bound to erode – and he’d let a few in before shutting the doors. Before last breaths and last beats. Before resurgences and resurrections. Before the idle hands of time thought to occupy their hours by seeking out the Reaper once more.
Then, and now, it was different. It was confiding. It was allies and comrades. It was friends and loved ones. It was family. It was all the things he’d missed along the way.
But still, he remained quiet.
Demonic intervals continued to trace and align, powers that be in their devilish, Cheshire manifestations, too inherent, too inborn, too fluid, as vivid, as real, as tangible as the ice chiseled in their marrow. “I only know of Zariah’s capabilities.” He could always press Loren for more information on Neron, but even then, it might not be enough. They were limited here, beyond musings and circumstances, his fingers playing, toying, with the designs on the teacup – eyes narrowing, giving way to speculation and distortion all the more. He had no certainty in hospitable ranges – to be fair, they’d done as much as they could for the Basin’s calamities, but the notion of not being here for another LongNight was a striking motivation. “Perhaps we simply need to go.” To experience, to see, to view in all its glory, in all its decadence, in the things, in the world, they’d long since left behind.
Then, and now, it was different. It was confiding. It was allies and comrades. It was friends and loved ones. It was family. It was all the things he’d missed along the way.
But still, he remained quiet.
Demonic intervals continued to trace and align, powers that be in their devilish, Cheshire manifestations, too inherent, too inborn, too fluid, as vivid, as real, as tangible as the ice chiseled in their marrow. “I only know of Zariah’s capabilities.” He could always press Loren for more information on Neron, but even then, it might not be enough. They were limited here, beyond musings and circumstances, his fingers playing, toying, with the designs on the teacup – eyes narrowing, giving way to speculation and distortion all the more. He had no certainty in hospitable ranges – to be fair, they’d done as much as they could for the Basin’s calamities, but the notion of not being here for another LongNight was a striking motivation. “Perhaps we simply need to go.” To experience, to see, to view in all its glory, in all its decadence, in the things, in the world, they’d long since left behind.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
