like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Like any true artist, Bastien’s descriptions allotted for a clear picture, a tapestry, a canvas, of worlds from before. Deimos wouldn’t have been able to contort or imagine a city built upon water, with the streets resembling canals, with boats drifting in and out; despite an upbringing beside the sea, and wars upon clifftops. They’d never had anything elaborate, save for manifestations likely created by gods, and he snorted at the notion of such decadence of a Doge and their gold ceilings, their painted panels – if anything had ever been so ornate or embellished in the Basin, the leadership would’ve been tossed off the mountain. But he could see the Ascended as part of that earth, and he nodded, smirking lightly, attention back upon the clay. “Sounds like something Rexanna would have enjoyed.” If they’d been capable of escaping this realm, heading back to their old ones. The monolith could imagine the Thief, draped in her finery, exuding through the wonders of it all - as she'd done within the Basin, as she'd done within Caido. And while he molded supports, and tended to the scaffolding structures, he began to lacquer little details, a dagger pressed in outline, a sun dipped in angles. Cranium bowed, features returning to reticence while he worked and concentrated, aptly attempting to apply his abilities without magic, he listened. Bastien had pinpointed him well, because Deimos had long since lived in the past, in things he missed, in things he lost, because they were so monumental, looming, and overwhelming, because he’d wanted to alter, change, and prevent the anguish, the strife, and was eternally too late. He dwelled there, in the annals of grief so readily, so easily, that sometimes the present was barely spared a glance. “An important reminder. Thank you.” Within moments like these, where he could honor Rexanna, where he could peel over the layers, where he could remember better moments, had to become the stark, beautiful binding things, instead of the way she’d been torn away from them. “I will try to do better.” Try to pick his head up, instead of leaving it down. Try to instill what they’d taught him, instead of drowning in the wake of their absence. Try to forge onward, and not meet up with them again so soon. Another breath billowed and coiled out of him, perfectly controlled once more, as discourse over gods continued. “Ours were similar to here, though not as readily available. Often they would come and go as they pleased, or favored certain individuals.” He, of course, hadn’t been amongst the latter. “Some of us simply had faith in ourselves.” Knew their capabilities, knew what they do – to persecute, to persevere. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace