DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
His attention went back to Azrael first – handing over the sheet of paper, the small smile still there, not yet worn away. The diagram itself was that of something close to a covered bridge, without the water underneath, but semblances of snow – an extension of what could’ve been a road to the portal, to the rising Fangs and its mountaintops. The enclosure itself looked to have been modeled in timber, lumber, roof, decking, siding, recalled from ages of old, where the structures could linger and live on for lengthy periods of time without constant need of repair. Beside a few of his scrawls lined with question marks, mainly ideas floating to the surface of his mind at the time, written down so they weren’t forgotten in the cluster and coil of his other machinations and musings. Especially towards the roof – labeled with his marked penmanship of wood? and metal?. Both achievable, but uncertain what would be best – free for the Ascended child to peruse, reflect, and note. “Let me know what you think,” he uttered, another rumble, before sliding his gaze over to Bastien.
He hid the sigh over the artist fighting. There could’ve been a multitude of reasons for it – Bastien not suitable for the task, Bastien dying on the battlefield and leaving Azrael alone, when there might’ve been some other place his talents could be utilized. But the Ascended would already know the dangers, already know the torture, already know the weight and horror of past experiences. And it was his decision, ultimately. So the Sword made no comments, nothing more than a nod. An understanding, even the potential result came with a heavy price. Maybe that could be said for a lot of them heading into the darkest of nights.
The question directed though might have a far more simplistic answer than the other ominous fathoms. “Wessex can teleport.” He’d seen the Wraith do it a number of times, bending and blending into shadows, maneuvering in one direction, ultimately ending up in another one entirely. If she wanted the weapon badly enough, he figured she’d be able to come and get it. “You can inform her I am willing to make the weapon.” A pause, a head tilt, a glance towards his desk, before flicking his gaze upwards again. “Was there an idea of what was needed?” So he could start drawing up some sort of plan?
He hid the sigh over the artist fighting. There could’ve been a multitude of reasons for it – Bastien not suitable for the task, Bastien dying on the battlefield and leaving Azrael alone, when there might’ve been some other place his talents could be utilized. But the Ascended would already know the dangers, already know the torture, already know the weight and horror of past experiences. And it was his decision, ultimately. So the Sword made no comments, nothing more than a nod. An understanding, even the potential result came with a heavy price. Maybe that could be said for a lot of them heading into the darkest of nights.
The question directed though might have a far more simplistic answer than the other ominous fathoms. “Wessex can teleport.” He’d seen the Wraith do it a number of times, bending and blending into shadows, maneuvering in one direction, ultimately ending up in another one entirely. If she wanted the weapon badly enough, he figured she’d be able to come and get it. “You can inform her I am willing to make the weapon.” A pause, a head tilt, a glance towards his desk, before flicking his gaze upwards again. “Was there an idea of what was needed?” So he could start drawing up some sort of plan?
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
