survival never goes out of style

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sometimes Deimos’ own ignorance astounded him; the amount of time he’d spent amidst kingdoms, sovereigns, and territories, and still having a vast array of the unknown come hurdling towards him (everything from healing, demons, monsters, and fellow infidels) was bewildering and ridiculous. But he had the ability to see past the frustrations and vexations, despite the frequency of their occurrence, to push towards sagacity, experience, and wisdom. In another life he might’ve been a more dignified scholar – but he’d been the sort to blend immediately into bloodshed and devastation the mere moment the opportunity arose. He still had his meticulous efforts, his diligent, scrupulous studies, his methods, ruses, and devices, but they’d always came second to the upheaval, the menace, the malice, the swing of a sword, the keen edge of a blade. So he listened as she explained, intrigued by a plant’s materials and substances, the uses extending well past whatever he’d accounted them for. The warrior placed the information away in his mind, completely unaware that it might not even be the least bit truthful, adjusting his gaze back to the chosen stumps and the marks chiseled into their middles. The indent of his smile still remained as she sing-songed and joked about potential competitions (which he could easily get behind). “If only,” and he thought about suggesting it towards the legions of festival airs that were supposed to be igniting at some point, using the moment to question and query about the incoming celebrations. “There are none at your festival?” He acted wounded, brows furrowing in an almost mocking display, before tilting his head and studying her again. It seemed as though she was surprised by his offer. Maybe he should’ve rescinded it – she likely hadn’t held many daggers in her life with every intention of mauling and wounding, and instead, utilized them with tending to patients or grinding away at herbs. When she accepted it, perhaps taking some time to weigh the pros and cons in her brain, he was suitably surprised, but intrigued nonetheless. He reached for her closest hand and gently grabbed hold of her wrist, dropping a knife in her palm, then releasing her, and stepping aside so she could have full access to the nearest target. “Try to pinch the blade with your thumb and index finger,” he proffered again, demonstrating it with his own dagger, waiting for her to follow before delivering the next set of instructions. Evie master of nothing place; of recoil and grace