Flew Through the Air Like a Goose [OPEN]
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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,674 | Total: 10,788
MP: 10254
#4

Deimos the Reaper
You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this
long and lonely road to hell
the throne must be such a sad and lonely place

Curiosity hadn’t been to his benefit this time: all at once he’d been followed by this gnat, drifting behind him like a mocking, obstinate fly. He likely would’ve been better off wallowing and wandering towards the tavern, drunk on alcohol and misery, melancholy wiles and brooding tendencies; this cretin appeared to be of the impish, irritating sort. The beast had met his fair share when he’d gone to war – other fledgling boys waiting for their chance to kill, to strike, but not taking themselves seriously in the slightest. Some had been the first to fall, struck before they’d had a chance to defend themselves. Some managed to survive. Some had been broken, no longer offering shield and sword. Their tricks and guiles hadn’t meant anything to an enemy or adversary, all a blur, all a form, only a figurine standing in their way.

Deimos did release a sigh at the hi and cheeky wave, only turning around to watch the stranger’s frame disappear, then reemerge on a lantern, the mask’s colors harsh in the darkness. He shouldn’t have yielded to the ongoing discourse; could’ve persisted in walking further into the shadows, but intrigue and interest had caught, snared, him again, and he managed to only unleash a subtle, inaudible growl into the air, irritated at himself. “Nice mask,” was the only thing he provided: no name, no calling, no sarcasm, indifference the veil and shroud he shrugged behind. He could understand the way the man hid, the warrior had done it with apathetic gestures and intimidating statures since he’d rampaged into battle. It was a habit, a pattern, a ritual, to slip amidst reticence and indifference, insouciance and disregard, because the truth was always much harsher. He couldn’t allow it to be painted across his face, to let the world know of all his failures.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary


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RE: Flew Through the Air Like a Goose [OPEN] - by Deimos - 01-06-2019, 03:42 PM

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