[seasonal event] should have seen this coming

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Were Deimos in a more cheery, obliging mood, he might’ve rolled his eyes at the insinuation of not getting involved; anyone who knew the Reaper enough could likely understand he had every intention of bombarding his way through the anomalies and intricacies to get to those he cared about. It was resolution and determination, but it was also rebellion, something born and bred in his flesh, in his lungs, in his soul, baptized on the battlefield when walls of men seemed to stretch into oblivion and he dug in to simply survive. The beast was not one to abandon those he cherished; it was an unsaid promise, a vow of assurance, layered and lacquered within the breadth of his chest and ribs; passing over the vague notions of do not need getting out and ignoring them. It would come in time – in measures and slips of instances when everything was put in place. Did he wish to become better acquainted with the unfamiliar Fae though? The bestial shades of his curiosity were always a mighty, potent thing too, and a series of queries and questions managed to coil their way back into the outset of his Machiavellian mind. Why had they captured his friends? What did they stand to gain from it? And what lurked beyond those woods, besides endless trees and secrets? “I suppose,” he mustered in response, pondering where Ianto was going with this particular frame of speech, piercing gaze segmented back upon the other man. Deimos was much more acquainted with the notion of enemies, adversaries, and opponents; but allies were not something to shove away. The manipulative denizens of his skull forced him to tilt his head, an, obvious inquiring gesture, imploring Ianto to continue, momentarily distracted and deterred from thundering his way through the copses and glades. the last of a line of lasts