It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
The Sword would like to say being a refugee was a foreign concept, but it’d be a lie. Past lives had interwoven in brief, stark memories of a time and place all too real and vivid, living a clockwork pattern of failure and fault lines. So if it appeared he seemed settled into the abyss, it was only because there were so many lined proportions to it – already adhered in his shoulders, in the regard for stoicism, in the way he countered measures and provided aid where he could. Hunting, assisting, ensuring some reparations had been toiled away, some penance paid and owed in multitudes.
So perhaps it wasn’t that he’d settled, but knew what this life meant.
And what it could provide and preside, once they dug in.
Determination was in his blood and veins, and he had no intention of sinking any further into the footholds of desecration and ruin. They’d make the most of their time out in the Wilds, and eventually pierce their way into the future onslaughts. For now, it was a hunting party, and tomorrow something else.
Lined with his typical furs, Belial following along silently, and Zuriel content to keep her distance unless they needed her for healing, the monolith strode his way alongside. Armed with his shifts, his enchantments, and then his hunting knives, bow, and blade, he likely looked like a living, breathing weapon. Standing tall, and imploring stealth when and where he could, crouching, bending, waiting, he sewn resolution into the fold of their Attuned bonds, nodding to both – ready and willing and able to begin.
--
Deimos has all his gear, shifts, magic, and Belial at the ready.
So perhaps it wasn’t that he’d settled, but knew what this life meant.
And what it could provide and preside, once they dug in.
Determination was in his blood and veins, and he had no intention of sinking any further into the footholds of desecration and ruin. They’d make the most of their time out in the Wilds, and eventually pierce their way into the future onslaughts. For now, it was a hunting party, and tomorrow something else.
Lined with his typical furs, Belial following along silently, and Zuriel content to keep her distance unless they needed her for healing, the monolith strode his way alongside. Armed with his shifts, his enchantments, and then his hunting knives, bow, and blade, he likely looked like a living, breathing weapon. Standing tall, and imploring stealth when and where he could, crouching, bending, waiting, he sewn resolution into the fold of their Attuned bonds, nodding to both – ready and willing and able to begin.
--
Deimos has all his gear, shifts, magic, and Belial at the ready.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
