Deimos had little time or use for imps, the tricksters, the mischief-makers of the world. There was enough deceit and underhanded treachery with diplomats and sovereigns, he had no need to delve into duplicitous, mercurial vendettas – and the grumpface insult didn’t endeavor him towards the newcomer either. So he readily ignored the creature as it bumbled and fumbled around the bakery, eyes glancing over the remains of what must have been a sight to behold before it withered and crumbled. He gave a quick nod to Wessex, whom he could hold in a much higher regard, fellow warriors, devastation and chaos at their fingertips, in their movements, in their motions. The beast had more in common with comrades in arms.
Besides, his accord with others held little in the scheme of things: Amalia announced her intentions in restoring and opening the pastry shop. It was a noteworthy dream, better than his layers of abhorrence, ambitions towards violence, insurrection, and upheaval. He had every intention to assist in the motives, like he’d done for Remi and Tristan, using his bulk and strength to achieve further aims and enterprises. While the others had been for future weaponry and items, free baked goods would be enough.
The outline seemed simple, but he’d been through enough of these activities and inclinations to know, to comprehend, there would be more to than just lifting barrels of flour. A previous experience had frozen his face – dust flooding his sights until he’d felt entirely numb – he figured this would be no exception. Regardless, he affirmed his willingness to support the cause with another silent nod, then followed the line of sight towards the basement, walking down the rickety stairs, down into the denizens of darkness. The flour drums were where Amalia had said they’d be, not far from the stairwell, wood and pans clustered and cluttered together nearby. He made his way to the first container, but heard some rustling, tapping nearby – indicating something else was lurking within the outstretched, gloomy corridor.
The beast indicated a warning to Wessex, should she adhered to the same task, informing her with an indifferent, nonchalant tone, as if discussing the weather or something else completely trivial and mundane. “We are not alone down here,” and he shrugged, presuming there would be an opportunity to strike or discover, but using the time he had to shift the barrel closer to the stairs.
