Deimos
The first response didn’t sound like the Valkyrie – she’d been the one who imposed alterations, changes, and capricious edges – not the other way around. But some modicum of understanding assembled its pathways in his mind; of children, of quiet woods, of a stagnancy that would’ve spurned some other restlessness eventually. They were alike in that way, pieced together with the need to do something, even if it was just residing on plains of ash, or staring out over an abyss of snow beckoning at their claws and scraping at their minds.
He twisted the teacup in his hands, fingers winding along the handle, listening as his head bowed towards the flames, the glimmer of the embers reflecting and twining upon the enamel. While they’d been scattered along King’s End, teeth gnashing and determination spurning them onward, Ru’s path had been impacted with other measures that she’d found along the way. The Sword didn’t begrudge her any of that. Perhaps she, like many of them, had simply needed the time, the space, and the notions to find her place again.
Deimos indulged with the trace of a smile, even in the hovering, harboring quiet. “As long as you find it in the end,” he supposed, musing aloud in a rare form of spoken machinations. He made no mention of cyclical stories, maybe he’d rather pretend it hadn’t been the same for him, lifting his skull thoughtfully, as if scattered amidst the chilling wind outside, rather than the safe and quiet hearth. “What are your plans now?”
He twisted the teacup in his hands, fingers winding along the handle, listening as his head bowed towards the flames, the glimmer of the embers reflecting and twining upon the enamel. While they’d been scattered along King’s End, teeth gnashing and determination spurning them onward, Ru’s path had been impacted with other measures that she’d found along the way. The Sword didn’t begrudge her any of that. Perhaps she, like many of them, had simply needed the time, the space, and the notions to find her place again.
Deimos indulged with the trace of a smile, even in the hovering, harboring quiet. “As long as you find it in the end,” he supposed, musing aloud in a rare form of spoken machinations. He made no mention of cyclical stories, maybe he’d rather pretend it hadn’t been the same for him, lifting his skull thoughtfully, as if scattered amidst the chilling wind outside, rather than the safe and quiet hearth. “What are your plans now?”
you're all bronze and bite
all venom and fistfight
all venom and fistfight
