DEIMOS
what tried to destroy you
didn't have the strength
didn't have the strength
If they’d followed Gideon’s line of thought, then none of them would have ever left the Hollowed Grounds. But the world spun onwards, branching out, permitting them to traverse and explore, no longer contained or rooted to one particular region. The answer inspired a rough arch of his brow once more – curious, but when the priest failed to expand on the details, Deimos pondered if it was simply not a place to pry. A guarded interval or secret. Or perhaps the gods had bestowed other transportation methods; the Sword was content with flying or rampaging through. The last time he’d utilized a portal had been in Halo, and only to ensure Zuriel wasn’t left behind.
Deimos’ concerns over the sicknesses had been valid and true due to his experiences. Perhaps these inscrutable things hadn’t scorched or touched other areas, but for the ones who’d been affected, who knew how badly things could become, it was one more concern in the wiles and wielding power of the Voice. “Yes, and many others.” His jaw clenched again, memories flickering, never quite fading, from his time combating both sicknesses, and from different angles. “Infecting a large number at once would be an effective strategy in times of war.” He didn’t think he’d have to spell it out any further for the older individual. A weakened force, their minds riddled with disease, would make combat easier for those not snagged and snared into the mired thresholds.
The mention of other lands snagged at his attention, Torchline a given considering Safrin’s incantations behind it, but to hear of Halo, and how it was simply derived gave him pause. The former General’s eyes went downcast, and then to Zuriel’s mane, hands fixing the ends of some of the braids. There were a thousand things he could’ve said, and most of them were hidden, tucked away behind his teeth. How they’d tried. How there’d been some moments of Old God flickerings. How Frey had touched that land with their abilities far more than the Voice, even if there were layers and lacquer to go between. How even those Abandoned, like himself, still could take the risks, could strive, could try. “The mountains are not a hopeless case,” and his frown grew saddened, as he glanced in between fibers of the unicorn’s dark mane. Thinking of the people left behind there – of the lengths they had to go. “But Morgan has spurned the Old Gods and the spirits.” Among multitudes of other provisions.
As for his own sins, flaws, and defects, his brows furrowed, somewhat surprised that he wasn’t detested by the goddess. Mourning for the loss of potential didn’t seem like her either – but she’d been the one to make him think, make him preside over the meager constitution of his own boundaries. Then he’d placed them. Granted his loyalty, his skills, his abilities, but only so far. He doubted the priest would quite understand the situation – perhaps he would’ve been an individual willing to accept the bargain, no matter the consequences on the other side. “An offer I did not take,” and therein he wouldn’t press or reveal any further; spine taut and rigid again, the discomfort evident in his walled-off form.
Deimos’ concerns over the sicknesses had been valid and true due to his experiences. Perhaps these inscrutable things hadn’t scorched or touched other areas, but for the ones who’d been affected, who knew how badly things could become, it was one more concern in the wiles and wielding power of the Voice. “Yes, and many others.” His jaw clenched again, memories flickering, never quite fading, from his time combating both sicknesses, and from different angles. “Infecting a large number at once would be an effective strategy in times of war.” He didn’t think he’d have to spell it out any further for the older individual. A weakened force, their minds riddled with disease, would make combat easier for those not snagged and snared into the mired thresholds.
The mention of other lands snagged at his attention, Torchline a given considering Safrin’s incantations behind it, but to hear of Halo, and how it was simply derived gave him pause. The former General’s eyes went downcast, and then to Zuriel’s mane, hands fixing the ends of some of the braids. There were a thousand things he could’ve said, and most of them were hidden, tucked away behind his teeth. How they’d tried. How there’d been some moments of Old God flickerings. How Frey had touched that land with their abilities far more than the Voice, even if there were layers and lacquer to go between. How even those Abandoned, like himself, still could take the risks, could strive, could try. “The mountains are not a hopeless case,” and his frown grew saddened, as he glanced in between fibers of the unicorn’s dark mane. Thinking of the people left behind there – of the lengths they had to go. “But Morgan has spurned the Old Gods and the spirits.” Among multitudes of other provisions.
As for his own sins, flaws, and defects, his brows furrowed, somewhat surprised that he wasn’t detested by the goddess. Mourning for the loss of potential didn’t seem like her either – but she’d been the one to make him think, make him preside over the meager constitution of his own boundaries. Then he’d placed them. Granted his loyalty, his skills, his abilities, but only so far. He doubted the priest would quite understand the situation – perhaps he would’ve been an individual willing to accept the bargain, no matter the consequences on the other side. “An offer I did not take,” and therein he wouldn’t press or reveal any further; spine taut and rigid again, the discomfort evident in his walled-off form.
still you stand
sturdy and smelling of smoke
sturdy and smelling of smoke
