[se] chaos is all they know

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace The Sword worked and moved and strived simply not to think, to not bury and wallow himself in those familiar brooding mires and warrens; maneuvering, stalking, through underbrush. More reeds were snapped and collected in his fangs, discarded along the rock, forcing his soul, his form, onward, in some regimen he’d attempted before – to not slip backwards, to not fall so blindingly into the conjectures of loss – but it was difficult, when everything still overwhelmed the brawn and depth of his shoulders. He paused momentarily, lifting his head from the columns of earthen wares, ears heavily attuned to nearby sounds. Zuriel didn’t do the same; either indifferent or not bothered by an incoming presence, continuing to graze nearby. As much as a hound’s brow was permitted to furrow, it did, contemplating, ruminating, until the voice pierced and punctured through the void – and the beast’s head looked up – sharp and precise. But there was no need to unfurl wild, wicked menace, to harbor immoral, iniquitous threats, to harpoon or languish the world around him. Despite not recognizing her current form, a bat, winged and perched, the reverberations of his name were enough to signal, verify, who it belonged to. Aisha, he granted in response, the slightest nod of his skull before placing the plant stalks nearby. He’d seen her only briefly since the portals reopened, at the Penumbra’s makeshift funeral, glad to see she was safe, well, and unharmed, that the freedom of worlds beyond the Grounds had been justified and true. Some of them had been wise enough, adept enough, to not stay within the spiraling hellhole, where monsters gathered and stubborn fools attempted to prevail. He didn’t know what to say now, after everything had pummeled and dissuaded, so he settled for slightly beyond formalities, a presence of normalcy he didn’t feel in his bones. How was Torchline?

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