Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place He often lived for danger – it’d been his occupation for years, unrelenting and vicious, pummeling headfirst in vicious, violent acrimony, swinging a cutlass, brandishing a sword, cutting down enemies one by one. But the concept, the notion, of being stuck inside his own house for two weeks was even unsettling to him; he wouldn’t be permitted to roam and brood and wander to his heart’s content without something attempting to cut him down. The Reaper understood strength in numbers; it’d been their creed, their pledge, their vows and assurances in the deepest, thickest contortion of battles, when bodies recoiled and desired upheaval just as plainly as the rest of them. The Reaper mulled it over, lips drawn into a thin line. The drawback was there would likely be a ton of people, strangers, unfamiliar beasts and fiends that he didn’t truly wish to associate with (and them likewise towards him; it was inevitable). Maybe he’d be able to linger in the corner and be drunk for the entire LongNight, be left to his own devices – and he quirked a brow at Rexanna, amusing himself with the thought of staring into space and brooding over the past while the rest of the void hollered and howled. “I will consider it.” He shrugged, and thought of the things at his home he’d have to take and gather, at least provide some semblance of materials for fuel, light, and food, if there was to be a massive gathering. “I have some wood and venison I could bring.”
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
