[se] came back alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Let go might have been a simple command, but the motions thereafter were not. Deimos reveled in control. In compositions of stone. In armaments where everything was precise and measured, weighed and calculated. There were too many things to do, too many angles to accomplish, too many duties to uphold, too many responsibilities intact and overwhelming. Dropping away from the nuances of those tethers and lines meant giving himself over to impetuous designs, to the unknown. And while he enjoyed the latter when permitted his curious wakes and notched in the inquiring circumstances, freedom and liberation from the ties that bound were often far more difficult. But he was getting better. It took time and patience, comfort and ease. However, mischief was readily available, under the surface of his skin, into the interwoven fibers of the perplexing man. He smirked at her surprise, at the widening of her eyes, at the protection needed from his proud, unabashed fervency. While Belial paraded, lingering deeper into the pool, fully coaxed into its surface with rising forelegs and squealing measures, Deimos had other means and plans. He crouched for a moment, and at the same time Elide unfurled her assault. The siege made its keen mark on his clothing, rambling down the front of his furs and coat without preamble, dousing and soaking, unfurling a laugh when it streaked into his face as well. Features thoroughly marked, beard wet and dripping, the warrior immediately shook as if he were in his canine form. “Neither will I,” he promised with the air of Cheshire grins and obnoxious, juvenile proclivities. Within the next instant, he plunged his arm into the puddle, then raised it aloft, so the wave coasted towards the Ascended in a deluging array. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace