DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
It must’ve been exhausting to be anxious all the time. Oliver reminded him somewhat of a bird, nervous and restless, lowering their heads and then peering immediately for predators, the internal mechanisms of their daily struggle to not become prey. He considered this, angling his head a fraction to study Oliver for a moment, before shrugging, casting the sword off his belt and placing it on the table, to be returned to the armory later. Perhaps that seemed less threatening, less voracious, less vehement, less rapacious, intimidating figure. If Oliver were attuned, the monolith might have sent some calm, controlled, composed vibes through the fluid connection all of them shared; instead, however, all he could embody was a collected state, comfortable and confident, leaning against the table and folding his arms across his chest. The pale-haired man appeared to have something on his mind, yearning, waiting to explode, so he merely listened.Magic – blessings, benedictions, and curses. Deimos hadn’t once considered any of the enchantments blistering through his blood as maledictions; embraced them wholeheartedly, each and every sinuous grind of power and precision, haunting, malicious intentions, factions of destruction, mayhem, and protection. But first, perhaps, to the heart of the current dilemma. “Why do you feel cursed?” What had occurred to label the incantations in such a way?
