DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
At one point in his scattered lives, Deimos’ entire existence was built around harming others; soldier manifestations, sent to stages of war to ensure adversaries came no further – and the unraveling tides of his incantations had ensured detrimental odds. He’d been a protector of his kingdom, he’d been disaster and mayhem and hadn’t given a damn about who was in his way; singular warnings before the deadly, nefarious, voracious ultimatums cast their wares into entities and acrimonies. Caido had altered him, less condemnation, less nonchalance, less apathy, and less battles to fight; so he’d adapted, molded, and re-sculpted himself, with the aid and support of friends, family, and loved ones. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that if any of the latter were harmed, in danger, there’d simply be a resurgence of the Reaper. And Oliver? Who seemed fresh and new and unfamiliar with the way all of those things balanced? Of what he wanted to do? Of how he wanted to utilize his enchantments? “So why did you do it?” He asked, the tone easygoing, not incriminating, not judgmental, but striving to get to the heart of the matter. Had it been a lack of control, incapable of wielding his abilities properly? Had it been a spur of the moment thing, impulsive and impetuous? Or something incapable of being explained, driven out of his mind because of the fear instilled?
