survival never goes out of style

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame At the stretch of dawn days after the fall of heathens and fiends, he didn’t go to explore the Spire, to march against Naturals, or to join the arms of fellow Outlanders. Deimos took the opportunity to scavenge the ruins, to wander, to wonder, to peer and peel back the oddities and occurrences; and above all, to strengthen his own abilities. He’d seen the destruction of the monster, but at the cost of life. He’d fought and fought before; fellow humans, blistering and seething, a living, breathing weapon, stretching his incantations and malice across grounds, hurling spears, throwing axes, knives, and daggers, arming himself with cutlasses, rapiers, and sheer, indomitable will. But this world was different – and that meant he had to grow with it. Instead of eroding, the beast was forced to lift his head up, stare across the grounds, and be more than a brooding, potential force. He had to be lethal. He had to be noxious. He had to be cunning. There was no room for floating around in his brooding munitions; it would take more action, more movement, more maneuvers to become something besides the dark, lurking, skulking creature in the corner. The beast thought he heard a rustle of wind, felt a sprinkle of rain drops across the bridge of his nose; but when he glanced at the sky, it was serene, a vivid blue, and he smirked. Today’s intentions had been to practice his skills, ensure they hadn’t become rusty and deficient in his lack of practice (vampire pumpkins had been amusing at best; and during LongNight he’d been trapped and ensconced). Layered amidst the ruins, he spied a few, more fragile pieces of wood, and after grabbing them, placed them meters apart, presuming he could utilize them for target practice. They were clearly no longer in use, and could serve one last purpose before a massive burn of debris and ruin. He backed away, drawing a line in the dirt with the length of his boot, and grabbed ahold of Alistair’s hunting knife. The soldier frowned slightly, because it seemed like the type of weaponry ill-suited to this purpose, and he suddenly wished he had some smaller daggers, allowing for a more pinpointed accuracy, lighter in his hand, capable of further flight and lack of deflection from the wind. When he looked down again, one was in his hand. His brow arched, then furrowed, head churning and attempting to puzzle out the newest enigma to run his blood cold. What was going on? What had caused this phenomenon? Was it a mirage? A hallucination? Some trickery, deceit? A snare, a lure, meant to cloak and veil his senses until he was stunned into a stupor? But it felt so tangible, so real, in the palm of his hand, and on a diligent, scrupulous effort to determine the rationale, the lunacy, he pushed it to his fingertips. In a single, swift move, he flicked the knife, and watched it sail towards one of the wooden blocks. It hit in the center with a clear, distinct, audible sound. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Evie