DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
The Reaper nor the Sword had ever thought of his invocations as curses. They were weapons, skills, and measures beyond what his muscles, his vitriol, his conviction could produce, a way to turn tides when inborn, inherent skills weren’t enough, or when a shield, a scythe, wasn’t quite enough (the flames in the Monster Hunter’s Guild, the scores of fools rampaging through the Aurora Basin, invasion after invasion). Deimos had hurt many just to win a fight. Just to orchestrate a challenge. Just to triumph. Just to survive. Perhaps Oliver hadn’t experienced those things. Perhaps he would never have to. Perhaps this blunder was just trivial, minor, and minute, one amongst the multitude they would all make further down the roads – forgotten about later on, when the world turned, shifted, and there were hundreds of chaotic imbalances to brace again. Though, apparently, judging by the way he responded, it was some major, massive blow. The General was half inclined to snort, but with the weight of seriousness pouring from the apprehensive man, he merely remained stoic as ever, presenting options. “Then you wield it another way.” A pause, waiting, pondering if Oliver would simply seethe against the comment, or if they could continue on. “Illusions can embody many fabrications and pretenses. It does not always have to be to someone’s detriment.” Though what he’d experienced, especially in the wake of battles with Confutatis, had been confusion and delusion; a scrape against the senses, trickery and deceit – but there were ways around those too, if one paid attention, if one noticed before reacting. Then, because he had naught to offer by ways of curses (pondering if Oliver had meant to insult him too in such a regard; no offense taken), a final tactic drummed from his vocals. “Learn how to control it.”
