[PQ] In What Distant Deeps

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Ordinarily, Deimos wasn’t a part of any Loreseeker rituals – his machinations and pursuits were rendered for militia barracks, defensive, or offensive maneuvers, calculating devastation and ruin rather than genuine sagacity. But Jigano’s request for artisans (likely due to the creation contortions rampaging through his blood; useful even if the rest of him wasn’t) amongst the exploration, Amalia already intending to go, and a host of possibilities lent him towards arriving at the Spire alongside the Shield and the rest. Zuriel, curious for a host of different matters (because she’d never truly ventured beyond either) came alongside, a haughty turn of her head indicating she’d like to see another try and stop her – the General carrying his bag of holding and horde of potential supplies and necessities. He extended an offering of venison again when they clambered through, as he held his breath for the vision of mountains (different he had to recall, had to remember, not his own, not the ones he’d left behind, not the ones destroyed and mutilated), as he followed the trek down into caves. The Fangs; as if it were about to bite and snap upon them all. The chill didn’t bother him. The snow didn’t bother him. It was familiar and routine, like primordial beacons, like distant comrades in arms, buried beneath runes and darkness, and a sudden pining for things he couldn’t have any more filled his heart, his lungs, before dissipating altogether. His attention was a necessity, not a deviation into the past. The Sword’s eyes noted pathways, the way they wandered, reminders of the underground too, when they’d sought out ROUs or Emmett’s forlorn body; lifting a lantern as they lingered and wandered, the traces of light billowing. At the notations for a choice in directions though, he studied more, glancing over the way floor angled, or remained. “Left,” he proffered, shrugging at Loren, not particularly fussed with either route, course, or bearing. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate