DEIMOS
Finding time for any sort of repose was a matter of deciphering when, where, and anything else that couldn’t maintain plausibility; short bursts riddled with something other than tension, before applying themselves again to ongoing chaos and ridiculous assortments. It sounded like Loren had landed himself into a culmination of predicaments, that could’ve been earnestly avoided by several involved parties. Who to hand a piece of metal over to, and the right or wrong timing seemed to stem and root itself into the arguments, for which Deimos could only arch a brow and be grateful he hadn’t been immersed into any of this nonsense. He said nothing for a moment, biding the appropriate seconds, the machinations behind his stare. Instead of applying readily into pending conversation, he took hold of the cloak before him, and the gilded incantations, reverberations, and enchantments began again, applying from his palms, steadily, a wealth of access and prowess provided. No threats, no warnings, no proceedings of bedlam spilling around him; a calming wave of capability, as the threads began to elongate, widen, and stretch.
In a way, those who’d become before Loren had received what they’d craved, though probably not in their preference. The Sword didn’t mention this, just lifted his eyes back to the Firebrand once more. “Would you do it differently, if there is a next time?” Another instant, scattered beyond the future, when something grave and important was in the healer’s hands?
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
