DEIMOS
Deimos, of course, was flanked with an assortment of scars. Many outward, below the furs and coats, pressed across the surface of his flesh in ivory reminders of every assault and onslaught faced. Every maneuver rendered. Every war brandished. Every comrade protected. There were the inward ones too, marked upon his soul, cut and slashed and torn to figments and frayed ends. But he could bear those – and did so every day. It was different for the wild animals, with detrimental injuries, with no one to heal them. Untamed and feral and with some scope for saving, but only the fortunate. The elder had clearly notched enough time on earth, and they’d treat him with respect, use every portion of his hide, meat, and bone, so his sacrifice wasn’t in vain. “I agree,” he concluded thereafter, eyes segmenting over the other named. The little youth, bumbling around, due for some other kind of tragic or traumatic end. “We will try with the elder first,” and if all else failed, they could go for the blind one – he figured it wouldn’t hasten in a grand escape.
Another set of whispers, pondering over the best method. “I can shift and drive them towards you.” It would be an excellent way to practice the Abandoned’s control and precision as well. He tilted his head, waiting for agreement or an alteration of plans.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
