D E I M O S
He took too long in deciding his next course of action, slow, meticulous deliberation, distracted by hues and colors blending across landscapes and pillars, banners and bubbles, easily entranced and beguiled by things he didn’t understand. The familiar voice flared along his senses; the last time he’d heard the decibels, they’d been fire and brimstone, courting riots and rebellion, hatred and animosity, acrimony and vehemence. Had Deimos been amidst his own homeland, capable of comprehending beyond the vitriol and venom, he would’ve been just as incendiary, a kindling, a stoking, of defiance and sedition straight from his bones. He’d gone the other way instead, rational and calm because it was all he had left in his ignorance and foolishness, brandished and bristled against when he’d fallen from the earth without any other option.
It’d been such a different contortion from the first time they’d met; Rory befuddled and mauled by gourds, and Deimos kicking them aside.
So the Reaper’s expectations were not of friendliness and amiability; he anticipated hostility and gnashing teeth, fangs eager and fervent, mercurial, rapacious claws avid to sink into flesh. His entire body froze, a stoic, unrelenting force taut and straight, mischief falling away from his eyes, his face, bubbles sticking to his hair and flower crown as he turned his frame to glance upon the other man. The beast blinked once or twice, struggling to adjust to the differing aspects and fragments of the leatherworker, seemingly unpredictable, a variable, capricious edge coiling amidst the feathers and festival grandeur. He wasn’t even quite certain how to react, if the hatred and contempt was going to curl and recoil again, brewing below the surface, revealed when the warrior made some inept comment, when he reminded
“Happy Fiat Lux,” he managed to sputter out, colder and far more composed than he’d been moments before – the armor and guards back on, chiseling its way to his foundation with a natural, quick poise so no one could scald and simmer across his flesh once more. The composure had rid him of most of his glee and merriment, swallowed down by the presumption of violence stoking, ready for anything and everything, the ease and vigilance of a predator carved and sculpted beneath floating bubbles and surrounding laughter. “Yes. Are you?” He had been – if he would thereafter would remain to be seen.
