DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Ordinarily Deimos might have committed a ruse, an assembling of mischief, simply to be an obstinate, irreverent soul, the impish, devilish nature was rampant in the back of his mind – but there were no jokes, no specious musings riddled in his statements. Blunt, honest, and only saying exactly what he meant; a note of challenge rankling in the crossing of the man’s arms. The Sword couldn’t remember the last time he’d been underestimated. It’d been a long while since his reputation hadn’t preceded him, either here, in Isilme, or Helovia – too many monikers, titles, and actions committed, tied, and knotted near his name. The Reaper implied death. The Sword implied munitions. He could easily be both.
Except for now: digging into the penchants of provocation and goading, he snorted, and within an instant, traded human form for that of the familiar, golden eagle. Tawny feathers plunged, wings held aloft, and that shrewd, narrowed, piercing gaze remained, predacious scrutiny launched upon the one who simply hadn’t believed.
Unite and spread the heart apart
