DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Deimos faced his instruction from Safrin with a suitable amount of trepidation, dread, and apprehension. While they were figments that encompassed growth, development, and a release of so many suppressed dominions, it also meant he’d be forced to play a role of his own making – instead of standing aside in the shadows, instead of pressing everything down, down, down, into the gallows, into the drowning fathoms. A difficult, habitual pattern to break, when it’d been his shelter and sanctuary for so long – pretending everything was fine, that remaining reticent and impassive was a method and means of survival. The latest misinterpretation of his few words and nonchalant actions had taken place over Deepfrost, through a series of volleying multitudes and misunderstandings. In all regularity, the Sword would’ve avoided this outcome entirely. He had no need to seek the Wraith out again. He didn’t want to. They’d parted ways in segments of hostility, misplaced anger, and rash, harsh judgements, and he’d be content in his derision and rancor for a lifetime.
Which was why the moment embedded itself as the first task. From here, he could likely seek out Sunjata along the Torchline portal, and then round back towards the mountains when all was said and done. It wouldn’t be quick. It wouldn’t be simple. And he knew that was the intention, but he still wanted to meet it head-on, like a obstinate, defiant infidel.
The Sword sent a notice Wessex’s way, an invitation to meet and discuss prior circumstances, but didn’t wander towards her office. Instead, he meandered down to former ramparts and sanctuaries, and stared, hands in his pockets, in front of the building that had christened him as General – before, before, before everything came crumbling down. Where it’d been a jagged, burnt scar the last time he’d meandered through, it had now begun to be repaired, changed, and altered; and so the last bit of him to remain along this earth seemed to dissipate alongside it. Zuriel remained at his side, noble head tilting vaguely, while Belial hovered, gliding over cobblestones and dirt paths.
