It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Deimos didn’t comment on the uncertainty lingering along the glacial expanse. It was embedded in his bones too, in all of them in some measure, when facing debatable circumstances, when striving for something more, and the doubt crept, crawled, and slithered in. A normal void, plumes of consternation. He wouldn’t judge her for that. Not when it ran so rampant down his own spine, in ridges and bones where people couldn’t see, couldn’t view, couldn’t fathom, between scars and lacerations, that he’d ever be anything less than steadfast and sure.
With his features pinpointed towards the third catapult he was rendering, Morgan likely couldn’t see the flash of disdain, abhorrence, and malice flashing over his eyes at the notion of Zariah. For some reason he’d forgotten her initial touch on the Academy’s creation; perhaps forced out of his mind when he’d heard of her death, when he was relieved of one less threat, when he was disappointed one of them couldn’t have taken her out.
New information though gathered against his ribs, and he turned his head from the framework, arching his brow. “I was not aware she had a son.” Perhaps he’d overlooked it, or hadn’t cared. Most likely the latter. A shame she’d reproduced.
The Sword wasn’t certain which news of Ascended dilemmas and ongoing sagas had reached Halo, so he commented on the most recent. “The body parts sent out.” And a hunt for the one who’d cast them out – hands continuing to glow as he began to orchestrate, create, and contort the final lever on the ivory-embellished wood. “And there is supposedly an organization called The Order. Targeting those that could become demigods. Likely going to use them for a war against the Voice.” If the information Sunjata supplied him was anything to go off of; he’d yet to ask his wife, based on their current status. The latter thought was brushed aside with a clench of his jaw, waiting for the Warden’s response.
With his features pinpointed towards the third catapult he was rendering, Morgan likely couldn’t see the flash of disdain, abhorrence, and malice flashing over his eyes at the notion of Zariah. For some reason he’d forgotten her initial touch on the Academy’s creation; perhaps forced out of his mind when he’d heard of her death, when he was relieved of one less threat, when he was disappointed one of them couldn’t have taken her out.
New information though gathered against his ribs, and he turned his head from the framework, arching his brow. “I was not aware she had a son.” Perhaps he’d overlooked it, or hadn’t cared. Most likely the latter. A shame she’d reproduced.
The Sword wasn’t certain which news of Ascended dilemmas and ongoing sagas had reached Halo, so he commented on the most recent. “The body parts sent out.” And a hunt for the one who’d cast them out – hands continuing to glow as he began to orchestrate, create, and contort the final lever on the ivory-embellished wood. “And there is supposedly an organization called The Order. Targeting those that could become demigods. Likely going to use them for a war against the Voice.” If the information Sunjata supplied him was anything to go off of; he’d yet to ask his wife, based on their current status. The latter thought was brushed aside with a clench of his jaw, waiting for the Warden’s response.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
