[OPEN] (Re)Unions

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Courage, steadfastness, dumb luck, and determination had led them here, along portals and intertwining paths, along Fae guides and specious wonder. The anticipation, no longer consternation or trepidation (ensconced in the back of his mind; never fully vanquished), drew him along and along. Were he by himself, his strides would’ve been rapid, fluid, minstrels of savage connotations and fervent plans, rushing headlong, ruthless and devastating, grabbing hold of what he craved and then being off on his way. He’d come here for his companions, his kin, and his beloveds; any and all patience, composure, would’ve evaporated from his soul the moment his feet touched upon the village ground. The desperation had clawed away a few of the more nonchalant, reticent features of his hollowed chasm, but for now, they had to slide back along his face, tie his yearning into slow, methodical traces, the meticulous born again, instead of the iniquitous, the rebel, lingering beneath stone and rubble. At the very least, it gave Deimos the opportunity to occupy his mind with their surroundings: the village sprawled out before them seemed wide open, sheltered by the trees, the balconies of their canopies, homes or some other buildings suspended and intertwined with the copses and glades. He surveyed, silent and uncertain, head tilted to peruse and study, analyze and examine, as they wandered deeper and deeper into the threshold. He didn’t revel or revere its beauty; he saved that for foretold individuals, but scrutinized it for what it was, following lines of boughs and branches, glancing in various directions for signs of incoming inhabitants – either Fae, foe, or friend. When they seemed to pause at a certain juncture, he ceased movement too – abrupt, rigid, taut, and tense, pondering on how to proceed. The silence haunted and loomed against him, and he waited for several seconds, pondering where they were supposed to go. He didn’t have the gift of any innate mind-reading powers, incapable of sending messages other than with his intonations or actions, but he did have a mighty roar, a booming voice, capable of ricocheting and echoing when it desired. The beast arched his brow at Jigano, and then Samuel, pondering why no one had said anything, so he chose to disturb the peace, calling for the ones taken, now freed. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, nothing barbaric, nothing bestial, nothing promising barbaric intricacies – only if someone stood in his way again. “Amalia! Kiada! Caiside!” He didn’t know the third individual, but it didn’t really matter at this point; if a lost soul was a lost soul, they were here for them, dragged through muck and mire and restlessness to liberate, to deliver, to triumph over what little they could. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace