The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame This was something Deimos had become more accustomed to: offering, extending, gifts, artifacts, or strength. He’d orchestrated much the same in Helovia and Isilme, just according to different fundamentals (death, protection, swords on throats, shields in hands). He’d guarded, a sweeping, savage ministration through borderlines and walls. He’d mauled, seeking to diminish, vanquish any threats hovering along their kingdoms, seeking out his own. He’d ripped and rendered, torn and bludgeoned, just so others wouldn’t have to. The beast would do the same here, no questions asked, no words necessary; but for now, the similarities juxtapositioned themselves in creation, in enchantments, in broadening, artisanal horizons. The Sword’s eyes glanced towards Sascha’s, waiting for a reaction. For once though, there was only silence, and he had to tilt his head, read and scrutinize deeper into the notions. I don’t know what to say quivered and shuddered, and for once Deimos thought he might agree (because he never knew either – a favorite of silence and hushed liberations). But the bow was taken, seemingly accepted, and he hastened a softer sigh; relief maybe. “There are plenty of arrows in the armory, if you want to take some with you.” To practice, to divulge in hunting, in striving, in taking, in administering. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace