DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The Sword presumed it was a rhetorical question, answering with only a shrug of his shoulders, an arch of his brow. Days spent amongst and amidst the Hollowed Grounds council were gone and done, faded away with the rest of the onslaughts, terrors, and traumas instilled within his palisades. Tainted, perhaps, by everything that came thereafter.
His eyes went back to the letter on the desk, listening to the next response, settled matters, and then possible alerts. There was half an inclination in the back of his mind, where the Reaper still lived and breathed and demolished, where the thoughts were cruel, were wicked. Where he’d sent out his own spies, his own Thieves, into the mad rush of the world, to linger, to slink, to discover and partake in the very sort of information compiled before them. Worthy details, nuances and notions to utilize in upcoming campaigns.
Because there were going to be days, hours, minutes, moments, just like these over and over and over again. The writing was on the wall. “Depends on how involved you want to be in it.” Before they were all immersed, drowning in the conflicted eaves.
If he were Wessex though, he’d want to know. He’d want the words scrawled across the page, the evidence of deceit and mistrust. He’d want to be able to track down the perpetrator. And on the other hand, as one who’d had adversaries and enemies howling at their doors, he’d want the details, the particulars, the moles hiding in the midst.
There were no easy decisions when playing these games, which was why he loathed politics and diplomacy, the interplay of these antics.
His eyes went back to the letter on the desk, listening to the next response, settled matters, and then possible alerts. There was half an inclination in the back of his mind, where the Reaper still lived and breathed and demolished, where the thoughts were cruel, were wicked. Where he’d sent out his own spies, his own Thieves, into the mad rush of the world, to linger, to slink, to discover and partake in the very sort of information compiled before them. Worthy details, nuances and notions to utilize in upcoming campaigns.
Because there were going to be days, hours, minutes, moments, just like these over and over and over again. The writing was on the wall. “Depends on how involved you want to be in it.” Before they were all immersed, drowning in the conflicted eaves.
If he were Wessex though, he’d want to know. He’d want the words scrawled across the page, the evidence of deceit and mistrust. He’d want to be able to track down the perpetrator. And on the other hand, as one who’d had adversaries and enemies howling at their doors, he’d want the details, the particulars, the moles hiding in the midst.
There were no easy decisions when playing these games, which was why he loathed politics and diplomacy, the interplay of these antics.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
