flying kites in a blizzard

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos rendered no further expectations for this venture, snapping the remains of the jerky and swallowing them down, other than memorizing, analyzing, and taking everything in. Thinking he’d lost the wayward, would-be falconer, he parted some portions of the crowd by size alone, wandering into the midst of the market, calculating, perusing. Anyone who shoved against him would find themselves repelled by his bulk, though none seemed vastly intimidated – too busy, in a rush, gathering their supplies along the thresholds of arctic precision. It was nearly comfortable, as if he could close his eyes and imagine the swarm of the Aurora Basin, alive and enervated despite the magnitude of its mountains, the range of discord, the perilous intervals of danger and treachery. They’d all had their moments. Except it turned out the youth had not gone away (and the Sword wasn’t certain whether he was amused or irritated), the grumbling, ridiculous amount of suspicion in the boy’s eyes worth chuckling about in another time, another place. Being questioned was asinine as well, and the General was half-tempted to not even deliver a response. It would’ve been very easy to turn away again, return to Reaper footfalls, weigh down the lacquer of appeal, inquiries, and cast his seditious ire elsewhere. Except he had a place, not in this world, but in others, and apparently it designated him to be a bearer of answers, no matter how mundane. “Exploring.” He continued threading his way through the occupants around them, as if they were swimming upstream, twisting back over his shoulder only to deliver the lad the same inquiry – though with less derisive notions – a very apathetic look upon his face. “And you?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace