DEIMOS
surviving is never beautiful
its blood on your hands and face
its blood on your hands and face
While his suspicions weren’t confirmed, they added to his machinations, to the scrupulous calculations in the way he walked. As if he weren’t there – more covert, even with his towering structure, keeping, tending, to the shadows beneath the jungle canopy. Zuriel, with her nimble adornments, had no issue stepping over roots, plumes, and vines as they walked past, deeper and deeper into inquiry, wonder, and curiosity. He offered a nod in her direction, contorting understanding, before the topic seemed to change. The General only occasionally sneaked a glance from the corner of his eye, ensuring she hadn’t been taken or snatched away by another piece of the landscape.
He had no presumptions that she’d follow – he had his own mission after all – but sure enough, the conversation continued, in the habitual nature of introductions. “Yes.” The mountains were cold, and his soul bled with its chilling ramparts, with summits from yesteryears, with peaks and valleys from the present. That she was another Outlander piqued some intrigue and interest, and only because there hadn’t been many of them left from the initial run, from when the Voice had pulled and rendered them from their homes and lands and worlds. “Deimos. Outlander.” Arms and hands brushed aside a few draping vines, permitting them to dangle at a length away from potentially grasping at limbs or necks, and continued along his way.
Until other actions and devices seemed to spur her onward – and there were a few moments where he watched her foolishly gather a matchbox, and flick flames into the landscape. Were this a dried, summer haze, there might’ve been more risk, and were it not a humid, sultry climate, the same could be considered. But Deimos had enough wherewithal, experience, and haunting memories, to narrow his eyes, and unwind the mastered adornments of water, casting it along her potential conflagration. The cascade erupted and contorted, then doused, soaking the burning intensity, trapping cinders into escaping. “There are better ways than risking the wood catching fire.” Unimpressed, unamused, and still uncertain if she would’ve been able to get herself out of her prior predicament (not that it mattered – he half-wondered if he should’ve just left her there), he motioned around her. Zuriel sniffed, haughty and imperious, while Belial continued to glide above, virtually unseen.
He had no presumptions that she’d follow – he had his own mission after all – but sure enough, the conversation continued, in the habitual nature of introductions. “Yes.” The mountains were cold, and his soul bled with its chilling ramparts, with summits from yesteryears, with peaks and valleys from the present. That she was another Outlander piqued some intrigue and interest, and only because there hadn’t been many of them left from the initial run, from when the Voice had pulled and rendered them from their homes and lands and worlds. “Deimos. Outlander.” Arms and hands brushed aside a few draping vines, permitting them to dangle at a length away from potentially grasping at limbs or necks, and continued along his way.
Until other actions and devices seemed to spur her onward – and there were a few moments where he watched her foolishly gather a matchbox, and flick flames into the landscape. Were this a dried, summer haze, there might’ve been more risk, and were it not a humid, sultry climate, the same could be considered. But Deimos had enough wherewithal, experience, and haunting memories, to narrow his eyes, and unwind the mastered adornments of water, casting it along her potential conflagration. The cascade erupted and contorted, then doused, soaking the burning intensity, trapping cinders into escaping. “There are better ways than risking the wood catching fire.” Unimpressed, unamused, and still uncertain if she would’ve been able to get herself out of her prior predicament (not that it mattered – he half-wondered if he should’ve just left her there), he motioned around her. Zuriel sniffed, haughty and imperious, while Belial continued to glide above, virtually unseen.
it's fear and feeling numb at the same time
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
