survival never goes out of style

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He couldn’t understand it – couldn’t push past the bizarre sense of invocations. But he’d never had them before; how many times had he yearned, had he craved, had he longed for something and found it outside of his grasp? The warrior narrowed his eyes and stared at the thrown knife, steadily poking out from where he’d left it, somewhat irritated and annoyed that it couldn’t provide him with any answers. Why would it come to him now? His lethal enchantments had been known to them ever since he was small, a boy, lacking control and sending blades of grass to their withering depths. His father had laughed, all potency and potential in his chuckles, his mother had stared, narrowed her eyes, and seemed to sigh. This gift, however, was unknown, was foreign, was strange. It didn’t crawl through his veins like the deadly toxins. It sprung, it leaped, it came without warning; almost effortless and fluid. It had a beat, a pulse, a rabbit heart, imploring for more and more, and simply to see if it would work again, his callous, covetous reaches implored for the same materials, the same designs, the same mold as the knife before. Another appeared, just as strong, just as durable, just as conniving and handy. The Reaper’s disbelief and bewilderment was slightly altered by the appearance of a woman – red haired, like flames, like fire, like burning, boiling copper – and he closed his fingers over the dagger. She might’ve been just as surprised by his previous actions, coming from a wall far too close to where he’d been practicing. He didn’t apologize though; a shrug shuffled its way through his shoulders, before his piercing eyes truly came to stare upon her. He recognized her, not by name, but by appearance, by the sullen, acidic whispers made by other Naturals as they witnessed the Spire Monster torn apart, as they watched Ronin meet his demise. There was a brief expectation that she’d come to diminish him again, like the rest had, screaming, hollering, howling, and wailing that the Outlanders were rash, that they were no good, that they made everything ten times worse; but naught came. Perhaps she didn’t realize he’d been the quiet, composed one, asking what they wanted and receiving no answer. “The block of wood,” he indicated back, pointing where the knife was still stuck, to ensure his aim had been impeccable. The beast arched a brow, and to demonstrate his accuracy, because his control had always been a sufficient, contorted portion to his soul, he flicked the new dagger back into his grasp. It sang with a crisp edge, a battle omen, towards the second placed block, and fixed itself in the fibers in a steady, echoing crescendo. Thereafter, though, was a balancing act; uncertain if he should continue engaging the woman in conversation, or if he was going to become the victim of some other lecture about the natures of Outlanders. He’d been trying, so with a soft exhale, he allowed an inquiry to pass through his mouth. “What brings you out here?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Evie