after fury
what do you do
He snorted at her final insinuation, catering to listening to him, but still rumbling through the impetuous modes. “It will come,” confidence and assurance, modicums of truth and veracity tucked into his reverberating rumbles. The beast nodded to her, watching as she picked up the paint bucket, and got ready to set off. “You are welcome.” As much advice the beast could proffer, anyway; multiple lifetimes giving over to nonchalance, patience, and composure, a reliance in one’s self, in one’s abilities, capacities, and the yearning for more (power, prestige, domination, prowess, supremacy, all intertwined, intermingled). “I need to deliver mine anyway.” With that, he stepped out – eyes lifting to the hazy, gray sky, the burdening clouds, and reaching down into his soul. Summoning, compelling, calling, a bewitching set of incantations honed only by the Attuned, by the intermingling of intertwined blood, and several large birds of prey appeared down before him. They spread their wings, extended their talons, gripping hold of the string, and he watched, waited, ensuring they could bear the weight, before they hastened off, tending to the Sword’s orders. Their direction sailed off into the ether, along the Artist’s Sanctuary, meant to be a surprise on their doorstep, anonymous and unknown.
The dagger rattle might give it away, regardless.
Deimos waited for her to step out as well, gaze following the flight path of the birds, before nodding his head, and maneuvering outwards, towards the barracks. “You saw nothing,” the hint of a smile etched in the corner of his mouth, before wandering into the midst.
{-FIN}
with the remains?
DEIMOS
