who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos never quite knew what to expect, or how to react, towards Adam. So while the raw rancor clenched and distorted around them, he half-presumed the other man would have something to break apart the distortions and upheaval; all he received was a question in turn. It was a fair one, as he lifted and sifted the dirt within a jar, sealing off the soil in relative silence, not glancing towards the husks and shells of kiosks, left to wither, rot, and decay in their own way. The inquiry had been basically the same as everyone else: pondering what on earth the Sword was doing, out of character, out of routine, out of the normal range of his movements and motions. Perhaps he should’ve carried a sign, pre-disposed to explaining the hows and whys, or if a shrug and a for Amalia would cover it all, would hasten some understanding into collecting leaves and an assortment of other things. “Safrin required fertile soil.” He stood from his kneeling position, lifting the bag to carefully place the jar and shovel within, amongst the other brandished, anointed objects and artifacts. He was closing in though; and that in itself was some assemblage of relief.
His eyes shifted briefly to Adam again. “I also need a bone.” Careful in his next glance, because it wasn’t towards the fields themselves – as damaged, as bloodied, as disturbing as they were, he wouldn’t be plucking anything from makeshift graves and rampaged catacombs, the General turned towards the tree-line, the wall of places and earth where some animals might have been just as afflicted as the rest of them.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
