DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The past few weeks had been relatively quiet; opportunities to bolster their own means, measures, and storage for the upcoming season. But the Sword should’ve known it wouldn’t last – in some aspects, the drama, theatrics, and upheaval of other worlds, realms, and kingdoms colliding with a letter across the table in the barracks. Delivered by one of his fellow guards, the General hastened a quick nod of acknowledgment, eyes narrowing at the name scrawled along. Once the other had departed, back into the folds of ice and snow, the beast took hold of a knife and slid the paper open – words causing the slightest arch of his brow.
Mostly because of the sender’s actions – Deimos didn’t think Oliver had it in him.
But there was fear embedded in between those nuances and formations, and he sighed, leaning back against his chair. What was he supposed to do, from here, in Halo? What could be done? Shouldn’t the Ascended be permitted to defend themselves? He couldn’t really blame them – not with the scarce sagacity he’d been provided. It was also no longer his role, to guard the Grounds, to patrol and peruse and protect the hallowed sanction. The only pressing distinction coiling against him was the note about the demigods; because it could always start there, and trickle down further.
Another barrier. Another barricade.
A following sigh ensued, causing Zuriel to lift her head from the nearby rug beside the hearth, and he shrugged towards her, the uncertainty waging forward into other means. The monolith penned a quick note to Morgan about meeting at the council hall later, figuring she’d be the only one he’d provide the information towards. Summoning another guard to deliver it, he then sat back and pondered the lengths of a response for the blacksmith.
Oliver might be disappointed in the miniscule bounty, but it was all Deimos could preside or provide for the moment. Then he maneuvered from the barracks, grabbing hold of furs and gloves, leaving Zuriel to her own devices (she seemed inclined to remain by the fire; he was not about to wander into something dangerous in the next few seconds), permitting his reply to be sent off as well. With the flurry of mail sufficiently ceased, he folded Oliver’s letter carefully into his pockets, and began the march towards the Council Hall.
The chill grasped and clenched over any exposed skin, and he was grateful for it – allowing clarity, thoughts, to sharpen, to hone, to claw their way into his machinations. With a nod towards others as he entered the building, the Sword presided down the passages, and bypassing his own office, he headed straight for Morgan’s. A swift knock of his knuckles against the doorframe indicated his presence, and then the deep rumble of his voice thereafter. “Warden,” an announcement; waiting for permission before continuing.
Mostly because of the sender’s actions – Deimos didn’t think Oliver had it in him.
But there was fear embedded in between those nuances and formations, and he sighed, leaning back against his chair. What was he supposed to do, from here, in Halo? What could be done? Shouldn’t the Ascended be permitted to defend themselves? He couldn’t really blame them – not with the scarce sagacity he’d been provided. It was also no longer his role, to guard the Grounds, to patrol and peruse and protect the hallowed sanction. The only pressing distinction coiling against him was the note about the demigods; because it could always start there, and trickle down further.
Another barrier. Another barricade.
A following sigh ensued, causing Zuriel to lift her head from the nearby rug beside the hearth, and he shrugged towards her, the uncertainty waging forward into other means. The monolith penned a quick note to Morgan about meeting at the council hall later, figuring she’d be the only one he’d provide the information towards. Summoning another guard to deliver it, he then sat back and pondered the lengths of a response for the blacksmith.
Oliver might be disappointed in the miniscule bounty, but it was all Deimos could preside or provide for the moment. Then he maneuvered from the barracks, grabbing hold of furs and gloves, leaving Zuriel to her own devices (she seemed inclined to remain by the fire; he was not about to wander into something dangerous in the next few seconds), permitting his reply to be sent off as well. With the flurry of mail sufficiently ceased, he folded Oliver’s letter carefully into his pockets, and began the march towards the Council Hall.
The chill grasped and clenched over any exposed skin, and he was grateful for it – allowing clarity, thoughts, to sharpen, to hone, to claw their way into his machinations. With a nod towards others as he entered the building, the Sword presided down the passages, and bypassing his own office, he headed straight for Morgan’s. A swift knock of his knuckles against the doorframe indicated his presence, and then the deep rumble of his voice thereafter. “Warden,” an announcement; waiting for permission before continuing.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
