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 The apathy slid over him in an eerie, rancorous sensation of the past. He was unattainable and unreachable almost in an instant, a wall shutting over his features until they were immovable forces, barely a brow lifted, a calm, disinterested, unemotional flicker rendered along his face. She was reckless and audacious, but he was the precision in the storm, in ash, in triumph, and in defeat. No matter how much she spewed out some incredulous ire (and it was intriguing, how she tried to turn it back on him - he’d met a number of individuals who’d had the world conquered with just the capabilities of their discourse, and the beast wondered briefly if anyone had ever stood against her fire, if anyone had ever told her no or ensured she wouldn’t get what she sought), he never changed or altered; fully eroded, cycling right back to where he’d begun. “I wanted to see one,” he explained, but the tone was just as ruthless and desolate as the rest of him, using his boots to slide a few stray wisps of unburnt hay into a pile. “We did not have any in my old land.” But they’d had monsters, they’d had demons, they’d had fiends and infidels dressed in wolf garb, and yet, it’d always been the same individuals underneath the veneer, the costumes, the veils. The Reaper refused to fall into the same orbit, not a creature casting stones in different direction to malign the blame elsewhere; and in fact, the way she discarded the traditions of this place, the way she altered and swayed the stories, made him want to offer his guard services to anyone and everyone who required protection during the incoming LongNight. Their reliance on the glowing deer (which he hadn’t realized; ignorant again, and that stung too) to thwart them from harm was a despairing quality; but he swallowed down the mutinous thoughts, the revolutionary nuances, rustling sedition away from his core, remembering not to care about anyone, about anything; abandoned and forlorn, the same as always. “Though I am not sure why you care about my motives.” He had every confidence in his abilities to withstand the ominous clamoring about constant twilight and endless disaster, and perhaps his arrogance would be his undoing; maybe he’d be shattered and broken against the very walls of his house, and he wouldn’t care then either.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
