DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Stalwart, steadfast, contributions of valor, honor, and some age-old primordial tactics, he was due to be the weapon, the armor, and everything else in between on the night’s knife edges. Familiar, routine, to be a stalking, predacious thing, cloaked in fringes of faults, flaws, and damnation, customary Reaper tendencies flanked in Sword convictions. His arm served as her guiding point, a silent sentinel, a towering monolith, as they contorted along boundaries; half a notion to snarl and sneer, murderous distortions, unfortunately not useful in a venture where their prey had to remain alive. As the sun knelt and the moon surfaced, they were still potential dominions in the midst, not shells or vessels of things they once were – but heightened, extended, expanded, collected affirmations of terror, anarchy, sedition, and the hidden decibels of glacial barbarity. One of them simply needed a renewal in sight. The beast hid his disappointment in not unraveling something in pure oblivion or vehemence, the fervent sigh carved to the back of his throat, where it remained, only arching his brow as they advanced along Oasis inclines. The wrinkle to Rexanna’s nose indicated she likely thought the same; or she believed he’d probably first go in for the kill. He could nuance a different role for her though. “We can try.” A shrug, closer and closer, his eyes appealing to puddles, searching for the larger earthworms, likely increasing their threshold and territory since the latest rainstorm. Once the darkness became an absolute, he partially shifted his eyes to the tiger’s, feline enamel and layers stoking the shadows, rapacious endeavors catching hold of a wiggling formation from the corner of his eye. “Found one,” and he easily ushered her along, turning and twisting in their movements, in their heralded advance, hands already glowing with the unfurling of a net in gilded palms.
