DEIMOS
Something about the wide open space, the endless snow, the stark, blinding glimpse of ice, settled him. Relaxed, and in repose, a sanctum, a sanctuary, probably few found comfort in – but for a monolith who had once protected, defended, and ruled over a world vastly similar to this one, it was a welcome sight, an open relief. These weren’t his ghosts, these weren’t his wraiths, these weren’t his phantoms, but the cold, and the unrelenting wind blasting through its interims were beatific reminders, glimpses of a time he wasn’t so broken. The Sword found a spot on the outskirts, not so foolish or dim to place himself in wide-open vulnerability, especially when still afflicted and requiring the aid of the Frey’s Breath water to keep himself out of delirium and sickness. Placing himself along a boulder, and Zuriel tucked nearby, legs curled as she leaned against the rocky expanse, Deimos began to ponder offerings. Bestowals. Gifts for a god he didn’t know, but had to trust in granting and giving them a cure – for he refused to go to the Voice for the latter. Not after the blight. Not after multitudes of other anomalies, destructions, and oaths.
Instead of flames then, he began to coax his creation invocations together, and a metallic, blackened structure started to form between gilded pulses, waves, and summonings.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
