DEIMOS
The Sword had already been back and forth along the intervals of the festivities, assisting in the preparation, and then placing wares along their artisan stalls. Weaponry, armor, and any other makeshift munitions made up the portions of the militia contortions kiosk, a blend of merchant enterprise with the concoction of warrior emblems – hoping it might entice anyone interested in joining the soldier bombardments and barracks – placing finishing touches on certain other fringes. By the time he’d actually completed and concluded the production (including some miniature targets, in case anyone wanted to try anything out), his bag of holding tucked behind booths, Zuriel grazing nearby, he actually had time to wander, enjoy. Because he had last year – a grand, shocking amount.
A less piercing, savage stroll, lacking ultimate purpose, he wandered along the entryway, glancing at newcomers, at those at their turn of the festival, at those who appeared to have found a routine in its existence. He nodded towards Remi, Loren, and Jigano, before angling himself towards the Wheel of Fire, the fire already pulsing at his fingertips.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
