[PQ] Long may you run

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The forest swayed to her movements, and he watched, waited, in vivid silence, listening for the details buried, burrowed, in the singsong, in the deceptive, deceitful air. The Reaper’s senses have always been honed and ready for the treacherous lines running underneath everyone and everything; a symptom of living through wars and terrors, horrors and anguish. For whom? He wanted to snort – for everyone - he couldn’t imagine the Fae would be anything more or less than them, and perhaps erosion and alterations came with longer intervals, spun in cycles rather than instances and moments. The other tones though caused his brows to arch, eyes flicking back to her after chancing glances at the trees, at the boughs, those within would know best what we may face indeed; did she refer to the Naturals? As an Outlander, he didn’t have a hope or prayer; his views came from the outside worlds, blended together and shattered against these particular outcrops. A grip suddenly on his leg shocked him away from any response. He looked down briefly to witness Jigano struggling to make an impasse with a thorny vine, and he stood still so the bard could gain his bearings, his hands thinking to immediately go to his hunting knife and strike the damned plant. However, Jigano managed to free himself before the warrior can remove the dagger from its sheath. It remained tucked on his belt, foreboding and eager, while his attention diverted again to the other members of their party, one shocked and addled, rattled and shaken. The beast tilted his head, a hushed inquiry on his lips, not wishing to alert the Fae that there might be something wrong and fettering at one of their own; no weaknesses ignited or kindled, incensed or proclaimed. the last of a line of lasts