death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
Even before the Sword sent the note, he presumed Sunjata had to be expecting this.
Some sort of semblance of vehemence, a fissure in the tenuous armistice they’d managed over the past year. On broken promises, on withered convictions, on broken-hearted Valkyries and steadfast, stalwart Generals, on the hinges and fringes of decay and pernicious precision. Safrin’s task only amplified the precarious position, and he was already on a precipice of irritation and exasperation; the abhorrence long since coiled and clustered bid another semblance of liberation. The scrawl, neat and tidy and giving nothing away other than the deeper marks of ink (Sunjata, we have much to discuss), could present some ominous prospects for the Flood.
Maybe he didn’t care – but Deimos did.
He permitted the anger to fuel him as he headed through the portal and out into the midst of a storm – raising his eyes to the high winds, to the humid air clustering and repelling in the same measure. The fringes of the sea were ferocious and contemptuous, and he fed into it as he asked about the location of the Flood’s home, as he crossed over flooded tracks and pathways, as he marched towards the house outlined in stone and cliffs. It spiraled and contorted, rippled and exuded, over thoughts of betrayal, over trusted friends, over death and damnation from long ago, over the inability to spare a single brain cell for the notion of his disastrous wake.
The goddess wanted him to express himself? Fine – let it be in seething, fiendish vestiges, in predacious, diabolical insurrection, in antagonistic poise.
A fist knocked on the fool’s door, listening to it echo against the backdrop of monsoons.
Some sort of semblance of vehemence, a fissure in the tenuous armistice they’d managed over the past year. On broken promises, on withered convictions, on broken-hearted Valkyries and steadfast, stalwart Generals, on the hinges and fringes of decay and pernicious precision. Safrin’s task only amplified the precarious position, and he was already on a precipice of irritation and exasperation; the abhorrence long since coiled and clustered bid another semblance of liberation. The scrawl, neat and tidy and giving nothing away other than the deeper marks of ink (Sunjata, we have much to discuss), could present some ominous prospects for the Flood.
Maybe he didn’t care – but Deimos did.
He permitted the anger to fuel him as he headed through the portal and out into the midst of a storm – raising his eyes to the high winds, to the humid air clustering and repelling in the same measure. The fringes of the sea were ferocious and contemptuous, and he fed into it as he asked about the location of the Flood’s home, as he crossed over flooded tracks and pathways, as he marched towards the house outlined in stone and cliffs. It spiraled and contorted, rippled and exuded, over thoughts of betrayal, over trusted friends, over death and damnation from long ago, over the inability to spare a single brain cell for the notion of his disastrous wake.
The goddess wanted him to express himself? Fine – let it be in seething, fiendish vestiges, in predacious, diabolical insurrection, in antagonistic poise.
A fist knocked on the fool’s door, listening to it echo against the backdrop of monsoons.
DEIMOS
