DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Were the demons freed along stretches of summer sun, or coasting along spring air, they might’ve had far more of an opportunity to break them apart. But in a way, it made sense they’d only come out when the darkness fell for a lengthy time, no longer exposed to the heat, to the potential for their own ruination. Where did they lurk and go in between? Within the ground, burrowed under soil, like some animals, until it was time to rise? Had they found some celebrated sanction, like the Underground, lingering and loitering in the folds of darkness? Did they find pathways in the Labyrinth no one else had discovered? The potential explanations and possibilities were there, but experience, opportunities, in finding them outside the designated stature hadn’t been. His features had centered solely back on these machinations, a furrowed brow concealing the spiral of musings and consignments to Machiavellian pursuits, age-old and primordial too, the scheming forever tethered to his existence. He’d lived amongst too many trials and tribulations to not fold into the haze of calculating. “From what I have understood, they only appear during LongNight.” It could be an inquiry for the heralds and deities, or even the Voice herself; and perhaps he’d ask several other Naturals around, dig more into the foundations.He’d often played the waiting game, to build up strengths and fortifications, defenses and walls, but if there were better moments to signify a successful outcome, he’d prefer it over the time where fiends thrived.
The beast raised his eyes from the ground he’d been staring at, folding his arms over his chest. The Sword managed to muster the slightest, lightest of smirks at the proclamation of Aisha. “Yes.” She was a favorite of his anyway, for her blistering edges, for her strength, fortitude, might, and willingness to learn, instead of miring herself down in failures or lackluster attempts. There was something to be said for those eager to go the extra mile or minute, and she deserved the offer.
The Sword didn’t miss the implication of few, slim pickings when it came to council roles. He couldn’t quite place fault with them – the world opening up, scattering inhabitants from the ruined, rubbled adornments, and towards the swell of the ocean, or the indifferent summits. Responsibilities and family kept him here. Some didn’t have those, and sauntered before the wakening earth with relish, biting into what it offered. What did the Grounds have left?
He didn’t ask the question, letting it simmer and stoke along his spine. Instead, he offered, and left it at that. “Let me know if there is anything else.” The rest could be saved for council meetings.
