flying kites in a blizzard

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame If the youth intended to be threatening or intimidating to someone with the Sword’s experience, might, strength, and prowess, he’d certainly have to try harder than a puffed chest and poor imitations. Deimos regarded him with the same apathetic, insouciant demeanor, still, stone, a backdrop of marble, forbearing, once encountering so many of this child’s ilk. Some had been emboldened, like Kiada, with potential and purpose, some had been considered as naught more than yapping dogs; and only the tilt of his head, a dangerous, treacherous gaze, indicated his scrutiny again, contemplating where this irritating child would fit. He could always knock his skull from his shoulders, and the answer would never be found. “Effective,” ignoring the quip about his lack of words, not inviting more discourse on the subject. Because he chose to keep everything guarded, close to his chest, where vulnerabilities didn’t frequently stray, where the weight of his phrases held more merit than constant, wagging tongues. He’d been taunted enough in the past for the same notions, and they were paltry, trivial nothings. He began to move along once more, turning, shifting entirely away, as if the boy held no value to his time, when he could’ve been wandering deeper and further into information and sagacity. It was unfortunate inquisition didn’t extend to everyone, and the insults towards snow was barely felt (because Deimos knew, far, far more about summits, about peaks, about valleys, nestled into surroundings of power and prestige, about being left alone at the top of the world, at dominion, supremacy, and glorious, intimidating savagery). “Then you have not seen much,” he answered in return, walking further down the marketplace – memories served along disastrous abilities of dragons, ancient creatures floating along seas of glass, genies and their bizarre proclamations, and cannibals hiding in deep caverns. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace