D E I M O S
Deimos had been a predacious, minatory force for so long, it was bizarre to have the notion reversed. It wasn’t quite vulnerability or unease slinking across his flesh and bone; the Reaper would never consider himself weak or susceptible, but he sorely lacked the claws, the fangs, or the carnivore’s speed if anything went awry (and he didn’t like it). It was the unknown, the strange, bizarre instances stretching across the tense moments, leaving him wondering, without answers or solutions. Intimidation and a menacing, malicious stature had always been his first weapons, but here, it didn’t seem to matter. He hadn’t been immersed into such notions since he was a boy practicing skirmishes with a wooden blade, taking on schooled masters and fellow, future barbarians; sometimes not meeting blow-for-blow, coming away with widened eyes and bruised limbs, realization a daunting teacher, experience a masterful foe. But he’d become better, tougher, stronger, through perseverance and fortitude, might and control, resilience and persistence. There was no way to suddenly become more than a predator’s ferocity though; the innate, ingrained instinct to murder, to maim, to rip and tear apart. His had been molded through battle after battle, through shortcoming after shortcoming, through cool indifference and yearning; the beast before him had it stored within its veins, and wouldn’t bear a human’s notions or nuances about death and finality. Another’s demise was their sole purpose, so they could consume, so they could devour, so they could live another day.
But he couldn’t figure out this one’s motives, because no sooner had he noted the fierce, savage gaze, did it reflect playful ambience.
This whole occasion was a confusing muddle, and he shook his head, presuming it just to be another one of those streamlined instances he wasn’t meant to understand. Perhaps it was young, more entranced by the strands of diversion and amusement than food, but he tossed it another chunk of partridge and searched for something else in his sled to entertain it. There were a couple of loose branches and stems lost, fallen away from their brethren in the journey over to the bakery. The warrior shrugged, reaching for them and then extending their slim columns towards the leopard, weaving it back and forth in the air in effort to get it to swat at their spindly fronds or pull their strands down into the grass.
Thereafter, he eyed the remaining plants. There were still two bundles waiting their turn, so while he figured the large cat was distracted, he dragged the sled and the rest of his tools towards the back of the building, conveying symmetry with tranquility, serenity. Deimos’ intentions were to follow the same patterns as before, shifting back into the container and grabbing hold of the necessities. He looked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes, studying the cat, pondering if he should be more heedful, mindful, of turning his back towards the feline. The cretin adjusted accordingly, ensuring the leopard was at least affixed to the corner of his eye, before kneeling back down in the grass, trowel in hand, digging into the soil.
