DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
It fought against the weights, as any living, breathing being would, and he waited, watched, for the inevitable exhaustion, or for a caged malice to spread – the hissing fury not sinking or simmering away. As Rexanna put out her flames, his attuned eyes shifted over the length of the beast, ascertaining dynamics and length. “Yes,” confirming, while his hands spread apart, while the length of his creation magic surged and pressed, a gilded, glowing, guiding mass – a tank taking shape, rectangular, long enough for the earthworm to be comfortable within, to exist, to breathe, to live for as long as Rexanna required. The monolith placed it on the ground, tilting his head a fraction of an inch, studying, scrutinizing, ascertaining proper protocols, pondering how else the damned thing was going to persevere and endure. What did they even eat?His hands lifted to hers for a second too, guiding. “Stand right there,” hoping she could remain as another measure, another weight, another presence, along the outskirts of the net, to ensure the worm didn’t escape. “I created a tank for it,” and then, on another thought, a lid followed suit, smaller air holes punctured through the top so it could breathe, off to the side, waiting to be utilized. The Sword granted it into her palms, so it was there when required. He rose and followed along the boundaries of the snare. “When you are ready, I can lift it.” And if she wanted to help and assist, since it was going to be wiggling, squirming, and yearning to break free, by all means; or linger just below, so when he placed it along the newfound cage, there’d be no doubt of its doomed, damned stature.
