who we are and all that we're trying to be
For the most part, Deimos remained silent, listening as Amun thanked him, a nod contorting in acknowledgment, never quite certain what to say towards the potter. He listened to the affirmation of a kiln, and though he’d never constructed one on his own, he’d seen enough between street vendors and artisans, in lives stretched well beyond this one. The fiend’s eyes glanced towards the confirmed corner, “I can,” brandished across his mouth, before maneuvering towards the chosen station. He crouched for a moment, returning to his quiet, concentrating, magic assembling in the cluster of his fingertips, starting low and across the floor, the gilded glow unfurling beneath his stilled, hushed manifestations. Before long, the bottom layer had been created, and so he steadily rose as it unfurled and unleashed, placed portions for the oven, for a firebox, for a flue, for anything Amun might require in order to get the means and measures started, the flames coaxed for adequate temperatures. It grew and grew as he spread his palms apart, meticulous, unwinding efforts curling and coiling from his motivations – until the kiln seemed to be the only thing meant to reside in the corner, massive and commanding in its own rite. Before he finished, before the golden aura ceased and desisted, because he wasn’t certain what else Amun would require, or would need, he looked over his shoulder, face impassive and neutral. “Is this sufficient?”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
