DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
The General managed to maintain a look of complete, utter nonchalance, but the reticence inwardly coiled away in a sensation of bewilderment. Advice? When had anyone come to him for counseling? Planning defensive maneuvers or tactics to invade Spire delusions, underground machinations, and anything else in between was different – habitual, routine, from the days of Helovia and soldier manifestations. Deimos couldn’t even begin to imagine, contemplate, or mull over where his suggestions and opinions were required for Oliver, who always seemed apprehensive, nervous, and fidgety. In regards, the beast remained in his chiseled, calm, composed, and stoic framework, arching only a brow to signify his curiosity. “I can attempt,” to offer direction or enlightenment, but he could think of at least three or four other people that would be better suited. He left that drifting in the ether too – a trial – uncertain exactly what he should or shouldn’t be signifying. The monolith maneuvered to the front door, opening it, an invitation for the younger man to enter. “Come in,” brandished on deep, rumbling tones, insinuating he was neither bothered or terribly busy; morning training’s completed and not moving forward with any more defensive machinations until Rexanna had brought together a council, and he could earn some approval for the diagrams dispersed across the table.
