DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Maybe they changed because they had no other options. Stuck and struck into a world with little choice in the matter, but given options in their pursuits – different, not chorded off straight into the familiar tethers and lines. Because while he’s been General, a soldier, in many parts and aspects of the lives he’d led, Deimos had also been a reserved, hidden, cloak and dagger figure. His enemies only knew what to make of his power, and how devastating it could be. His allies knew him for his nonchalance, his prowess, and his precision. His friends, few and far between, had been permitted the briefest aspects of layers beneath the armor, beyond the walls. And here, Caido and its constituents had peeled away the broken, worn lacquer, piece by piece, little by little, until some hours where he was splintered, fractured and done, until some moments where he was wild and free, until some days he’d been allowed to love and cherish, until some seasons where he thought he might perish beneath all the grief and despair. Within these junctures, he flourished and dimmed, became liberated and providential, shielding and protective, learning exactly what he required and needed. And it wasn’t the heartache or anguish.
He trusted Hotaru would find that too. Improvements. Peace. Some platitude where she didn’t suffer.
A shrug of his shoulders launched again at the aspects of nature-Frey – only briefly familiar of the deity, and certainly not of their counterpart. Thereafter though, he was only treated to exasperation – rendering a bright Cheshire grin in response, where cheeks dimpled and eyes maintained their juvenile accord.
Only to falter, slightly, at the notions of the next round of relaxing.
Gaze narrowed in notched suspicion, but he gathered his towel from where he’d last placed it, stepping out of the mud pool, and drying off portions mottled and maimed from previous antics. Any remnants were whisked away by incantations, a relative pout ascertaining through his features again as he stomped towards the showers with put-upon indignance.
Another rinse and soak left him at least with the opportunity to rid the muck out of his hair, barely listening to her as he wove the water along, contorting the liquid between his hands and lifting it to his face. Unseen, the Sword blanched slightly at the notions of incense (utterly confused as to what it was) or oil (why?). Snorting once more, upon finishing up, towel draped around him briefly, and some new shorts contorted, created, he crouched before the selection. He didn’t look for very long, the uncertainty and apprehension curling through, before grabbing something like pine or evergreen, and then gliding outwards from the stall with a very pained expression – off to the gallows.
“Here,” he offered both incense and oil in a very curt manner, perhaps giving away some of his trepidation, and stared at the table like any other might side-eye a snare. More than once he lifted his sights towards other escape routes; finding them lackluster and nearly empty. Finally, with really no way out, he gave in, sidling towards the surface, and depositing himself chest down, brows furrowed into a defined scowl.
He trusted Hotaru would find that too. Improvements. Peace. Some platitude where she didn’t suffer.
A shrug of his shoulders launched again at the aspects of nature-Frey – only briefly familiar of the deity, and certainly not of their counterpart. Thereafter though, he was only treated to exasperation – rendering a bright Cheshire grin in response, where cheeks dimpled and eyes maintained their juvenile accord.
Only to falter, slightly, at the notions of the next round of relaxing.
Gaze narrowed in notched suspicion, but he gathered his towel from where he’d last placed it, stepping out of the mud pool, and drying off portions mottled and maimed from previous antics. Any remnants were whisked away by incantations, a relative pout ascertaining through his features again as he stomped towards the showers with put-upon indignance.
Another rinse and soak left him at least with the opportunity to rid the muck out of his hair, barely listening to her as he wove the water along, contorting the liquid between his hands and lifting it to his face. Unseen, the Sword blanched slightly at the notions of incense (utterly confused as to what it was) or oil (why?). Snorting once more, upon finishing up, towel draped around him briefly, and some new shorts contorted, created, he crouched before the selection. He didn’t look for very long, the uncertainty and apprehension curling through, before grabbing something like pine or evergreen, and then gliding outwards from the stall with a very pained expression – off to the gallows.
“Here,” he offered both incense and oil in a very curt manner, perhaps giving away some of his trepidation, and stared at the table like any other might side-eye a snare. More than once he lifted his sights towards other escape routes; finding them lackluster and nearly empty. Finally, with really no way out, he gave in, sidling towards the surface, and depositing himself chest down, brows furrowed into a defined scowl.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
