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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#1
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
When opportunity came, the Reaper frequently dove straight into it, and with their recent excursion into the heart of the Fae village (and despite Delah’s incriminating, don’t you dare stares), he opted to make the most of it. Relief had scattered the remains of his vehemence, insolence, and abhorrence, and gave way to his meticulous inquiry and curiosity. He knew next to nothing about the Fae and their world, which made sense, given their duplicitous, specious designs (sacrifices, but with memories, not monsters, everything still and tranquil, as if naught had happened), because that was the way they’d orchestrated it. With their chance to skulk and slink around, however, he intended to soak up the nuances, the sentiments, the customs, and the culture; not to assimilate, but to know and understand, to try and comprehend the hows, whys, overriding the complexities of his form to simply resist, as he always did. It was a habit to rebel and seethe – it was a new thing to breathe in worlds and fathom their depths.

A marketplace came into his view as he wandered, more meandering steps rather than his usual, menacing, minatory strides. He was intrigued by the river nearby at first, completely clear, rocks at the bottom, tranquil and serene, and then he swung his head to the hustle and bustle of the crowd. The stalls reminded him slightly of the Fiat Lux’s shops, but instead of a heady aroma of foods, there were glistening fabrics and jewelry lined up as wares. He didn’t get any closer, presuming his massive frame was a dead give-away that he didn’t belong (Outlander he would eternally be; no matter where he seemed to roam or go), and though he’d return a stare or two with his own piercing glance, there weren’t any intentions to antagonize in his stance. They were wandering notions, making careful, scrupulous notes in his memory, adding them to his schemes, ruses, and contemplations.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
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#2
Although he hoped to be coming back someday soon at Eliza's invitation, they were certainly pushing the reluctant hospitality of their hosts by staying as long as they had already. Though, as his Fae friend had reminded him, her people were not a monolith. Delah and her warriors and others among the small, winged people may have resented their presence, but there were also those who were curious, if cautious, and willing to give these strange new neighbors a fair chance.

He had not come prepared to trade, but he had brought supplies for first aid as well as food and water from inside the barrier, valuable as curiosities if nothing else. He had enjoyed a brief walk through the market the night before, prior to retiring to sleep, but by then most of the stalls had either closed down or were in the process of closing, and he had little chance to engage the shopkeeps in conversation or trade.

Not so this morning. He had risen early, contrary to his usual habits, in order to make the most of the visit's end. 'Visit' thanks to Arduinna, a fact he had no intention of forgetting anytime soon.

He had just finished his hunched-over trading with a sprightly old Fae woman who sold minor medicinals, exchanging some of his supply of efas herb for a few ounces of bark that was supposed to brew a tea for reducing fevers and easing swelling when he caught sight of a great dark head that towered above the local people even more than his own. He paused for a moment, considering whether or not to approach Deimos, knowing how strained their interaction had been since he had returned without Amalia. Not that Jigano would have been any less upset had their positions been reverse...

With a squaring of his shoulders he stepped back into the central path and made his way over to the other human, nodding a cautious greeting. "Good morning," he offered, polite but wary of whether or not Amalia's beau still blamed him for her initial loss.
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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#3
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
His preparations to bombard their way into the Fae village had included necessities for impending warfare: a melee of weapons stored along various parts of his figure, some food in case they were ensconced in the woods for a lengthy period of time. He’d failed to take any trading items into consideration, simply because he’d been well on his way to disaster, ruin, and oblivion – there’d been no calculations made for trade. Luckily, he had his creation magic intertwined along his veins and bones, could wait to barter if anything caught his eye. The beast’s experience with Jiao highlighted that his interests may not align with theirs (fabric for information); but his patience, his composure, now heightened with his comrades’ safety, might ensure some measure of success.

His gaze lingered on baubles and trinkets, on Fae who apparently held no fear of him in efforts to make a sale, and he’d shake his head, retreat a little to the middle of the road, and wander on further, fervent to investigate every avenue and route. A voice, familiar, flared over the crowd, causing him to turn, for his piercing stare to settle upon Jigano.

The Reaper wasn’t sure how to regard the bard in that particular moment – he went slightly rigid, lost the ease of relaxation, galvanized and armed himself for something impending. Their previous conversations had been taut with tension, Jigano’s botched exploration attempts ending with his friends’ abductions and subsequent sacrifices; Deimos hadn’t reacted well. He’d kept his restraint, but only just, hackles raised and menace imploring, eager to descend straight back into vehemence and violence, the restless king swinging through his mind. They’d been lucky and fortunate with Arduinna leading them through the labyrinth of woods; otherwise the results could’ve been disastrously entangled.

But how was he to measure Jigano now? In another world, in another time and place, errors were mere excuses, a lack of preparation and ineptitude flawed, defective, and a means of betrayal. It might’ve been met with a do not fail me again or treachery, a send-off out of the mountains, beyond the summits’ reaches, where the cold couldn’t seep into their bones, where his intimidating, carnivorous prowess couldn’t reach their souls. It might’ve been met with death.

Here and now, however, he couldn’t afford to blend into that chilling, desolate monarch again. Once, the Reaper had carved his own legion of motivations and ambitions, but along the way, had sewn his own stark, cruel isolation, high expectations notched with fickle, feral friends. Sometimes there’d been nothing left. Sometimes he’d stared into the void and it stared back, no one else in the empty, detached world of his own making. So what should he portray and value now – forgiveness? In some respect, there was nothing to truly absolve; their companions were safe and sound, no worse for wear. In others, mistakes and errors had cut away a significant declaration of safety, of sanctuary, that should’ve been their shroud and shield amidst their scholarly brethren and leader.

He recalled Rexanna; once Thief and then friend, traitorous efforts lacerating his soul, because he hadn’t been enough, because he hadn’t done enough, because other things pulled everyone and everything away from his unattainable, unreachable, broken, damned self. “Morning,” he offered in return, a dip of his skull in a forbearing nod, waiting for some other ax to fall. The warrior took a breath, an inhale massive enough to see his chest move beneath his clothing, before extending a small olive branch: the smallest of smiles, wary, guarded. “Success comes in many forms, apparently.” It wasn't always triumphant: their rescue hadn’t been much of a rescue at all; almost unnecessary, but there were other means and measures: their companions’ safety, curiosities enhanced, and interests kindled.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
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#4
He saw Deimos stiffen at his greeting, and Jigano held his wince inside. It wasn't that they had unfinished business, but that the casual distance they had once fallen so naturally into as their lives revolved in different orbits was no longer going to be possible. Jigano had forged his bonds with Amalia and did not begrudge her the chance to do the same with others, and he had not missed how she blushed and smiled at the large, dark-haired man. She had become family, dear to him - as he was to her, and if she chose to pursue Deimos, either as friend or something more, he would not stand in the way of it. But neither would he retreat from what those bonds of family meant to him, no more than she had when he and Rory - her brothers - forged bonds of their own.

It was not what he would have chosen, that their tentatively friendly bonds from the bakery had been severed when Jigano had managed to escape an ambush that Amalia and Kiada had not, whether through luck or some purpose known only to the warchief. It was one thing to castigate himself for what had happened, to lash himself with guilt and words of acid, punishing his failure to protect them with austerity and privation. It was quite another to let one who hadn't been there cast judgment from a position of ignorance, but just as he and Remi had maintained a polite distance when their personalities had been at odds, so Jigano thought he could hold himself to that standard with Deimos as well... provided the big man was willing to do so, too.

The return greeting in spite of the tension was a step in the right direction, at least, and the smile was entirely unexpected, far more than Jigano had dared to hope for. He returned it, no less cautious, even as he carefully turned over Deimos's words for barbs or hidden blades. They were a prickly sort of observation, a damning of faint praise, but not overtly hostile, and so the bard accepted them at face value. "The only success that matters to me is that my family and friends are safe and able to return with us," he said quietly, shifting politely out of the way of a diminutive man hurrying past with an armload of fabric piled high. "Not that I think Amalia and Caiside will be able to stay out of the Wildwood for long, and it's all the more reason to build bridges and make allies among the Fae where I can, in preparation for that day," he added with a touch of rueful admission. He dodged again, coming to rest near a stall with baskets piled high that had been doing brisk business until a lull timed neatly with their arrival. The young winged man standing behind the booth cocked his head up at the white-haired bard and dark-maned warrior consideringly before coming to a decision and offering a basket for them to admire.

"Good sirs, surely you will be needing a basket for the days to come! I sell nothing but the finest woven reeds, guaranteed to capture the very sun in their weaves! Since you are strangers in our village I am willing to be generous in my offers. What do you have for trade in exchange for these useful and beautiful baskets, both utilitarian and pieces of art in their own right?"
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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#5
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
He waited for some anvil to fall or strike him down, consider him irreverent and hostile again, form the spewing masses and flames sent to cast him ablaze. The memories came and went sometimes in the intervals of his slumber; a tenacious, clambering opus of his malignant flaws coming to render him to cinders – reliving every nuance of his words, of his phrases, of how he couldn’t piece together the right diatribes or inflections, of how he was always a little too late in the crossfire, of how his actions spoke far louder than his words ever could. The Reaper was usually his own worst nightmare, a fool amidst fools, desperate to convey what lay beyond those walls, but incapable of doing so without wrecking and obliterating his carefully orchestrated line of defenses. So often times the conversations never happened, and he let his soul get buried under the folly, let the realms misconstrue, let the kingdoms lay waste, on top of his mountain, alone and ridiculous and inept in everything but warfare and machinations. Neither of the latter ever kept him from falling apart, not in death, not in life reborn. But as damned and grim as he was, the beast always tried.

Deimos nodded in agreement with the first statement, but didn’t know what else to say. There was always the conundrum, the next step, the hollowed bits of his vices he could never quite overcome. Was he sorry for the way he’d acted? It’d be a lie; the cold, conniving edges of his past had come crawling right back over his senses, but there’d been resolution and determination in the savage, sinister outlooks, and they’d persisted, even after everything chiseled and sculpted its way into nothing. It was a learning curve, to not instantly brew into calculations and Machiavellian tendencies; it was how he’d survived for so long, born again beneath the hostilities and melees. Maybe it was just have to come with time, and they’d let bygones be bygones, stupidity inflected in too much curiosity and boldness. So instead of producing falsehoods and pretenses, his figure remained tense and drawn, but still somewhat obliging, head tilted to listen as he surveyed the world around them. Where I can; always somewhat about the bard, rather than friends and companions as a whole, the Guild, the others sure to follow, sure to keen, sure to not yield either. He tucked this observation away, but responded in kind, watching the fast pace of the market breeze by. “How do you propose we kindle these alliances?” The once King could understand strategies, could play into those games and ruses.

Another loomed nearby though; cautious but optimistic, suddenly imploring them to glance at his wares – inquiry loomed as dangerously as the emboldened entanglements wrapped around the Reaper’s frame, causing him to step forward, wondering over the fabled reeds and their finely woven threads. Had these been the baskets to capture the sun, as Ianto had mentioned? Were these their customs? He was forced to ponder the length of the tales and stories he’d been told, because he was always an Outlander, plucked and taken and shoved against. But he’d oblige, especially since there were a few other things he thought to acquire; might as well learn how they bartered along the threshold. If it was anything like Jiao’s tastes, he could stand a chance. “Depends on what you prefer.” The creation magic curling in his veins flared and ensued – but he wasn’t about to manifest something without an idea, a notion, of what was craved or desired.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
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#6
The Guild was not the first time he had led others, though in the past he had orchestrated an army of soldiers, not scholars. He had done so out of desperation, fearful of the future he had seen and taking steps to be ready should he fail. Or, only slightly less terrifying, should they succeed. But even with the best of intentions there was a weight and loneliness to command, a knowledge that others relied on him, and that he would be the one to shoulder all final responsibilities when it came to duty and sacrifice, vengeance and defeat. He would come after his people, always, because the thought of not backing them up simply did not occur to him. And now Deimos, for all his black glares and angry glowering the days before, had not only calmed down but seemed to want to include himself in that number. Not 'you,' not 'I,' but 'we'. The bard blinked in bemusement, taking fresh stock of the big man as he offered his own explanation.

"I had planned on curiosity, kindness, and a dash of charisma," he explained as he tried to stay out of the way of the bustling foot traffic as Fae villagers went about their daily tasks and errands, some giving the tall foreigners surreptitious glances while others stared boldly. "It stood me in good stead with Eliza yesterday, and I'm hopeful there are other Fae like her who might see us as interesting rather than threatening." Honesty, sincerity, and a bit more vulnerability than he had been entirely comfortable with had played a part as well, but that was between him and Eliza.

His dance around traffic had brought them near the basket-seller, and Jigano tilted his head at the man with bright interest as he advertised his wares. The fact that he was talking to them and willing to sell to them at all was a hopeful sign, and Jigano offered him a half-bow as he leaned over to examine some of the work. There were large baskets and small ones, square ones and round ones, some woven loosely and others so tight that they looked as though they could hold water without dripping. Many were green or brown or yellow, but some were woven of different types and colors of reeds so that patterns twisted through their weave, cleverly displayed. Amalia had told him of the Fae tradition of sun-catching the evening before, and this seemed an excellent way to respect that and perhaps earn a bit of goodwill. Deimos spoke up first, a question for a question, and Jigano cocked his head to hear the answer.

The basket seller tilted his head up - and up - to consider Deimos, his wings lifting slightly in a body language Jigano could not interpret. Coming to a decision he gave a sly smile, glancing between the two men and ignoring the envious looks of several of the other nearby shopkeepers - and the disapproving glares of others. "What do you have to trade from where you are from, good sirs? Surely you bring wonders from beyond the Greatwood that would be rare and novel here. Something obviously made by human hands, rather than Fae." He spread his hands across his baskets as he wheedled. "Perhaps something commonplace to you that would be unusual here?"

Jigano chuckled at the merchant's line, seeing where it was going with a grin of his own. "Something you can use to impress your friends with, and inspire jealousy in your competitors?" he murmured, less question than statement. He'd traveled far and was no stranger to this game. The Fae wanted something that he could turn around and barter for a higher price due to its rareness and cachet as being a foreign treasure. As foreigners themselves, the humans wouldn't know who to talk to the way a local would, but since they had little enough of value on them... "For a basket that could be used to carry food once its done catching the sun, what about a trade in that food?" he offered. "Food from beyond the Greatwood, made by human hands, and human-grown crops and livestock?"

"What kind of food?" the shopkeep asked cautiously, looking between the two men.
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Delah Tàirneanach
the Greatwood Guardian
War Chief

Age: 100 | Height: 4' | Race: Fae | Nationality: Natural
Level: 5 - Strg: 11 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 25 - Luck: 28
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#7
DELAH
Today Delah was alone, but that did not make her any less intimidating.

Shorter by feet than the two men currently having words with one of the merchants, still Delah carried her head high, jaw clenched, and mossy-eyes locked upon the white-haired and black-haired men.

"Your friends have been released. I thought I made it clear that your presence was no longer necessary within our woods." Delah said as she arrived, voice like flint over a fire. At her arrival the merchant hastily averted his eyes, plucking away the offered baskets and busying himself with saying hello to one of the merchants nearby.
In places deep
With roots entwined
I live the life I left behind
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,216
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#8
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
Despite this being an opportune time to mention how he’d acquired knowledge of this threshold – of the monsters (but not?) layered within – through trade and some malicious looking features - he didn’t betray Jiao. He kept his word, silent and still, tilting his head to listen while his eyes ran over the hustle and bustle of another market day, activity bristling. The beast didn’t think to catch anyone unawares, a mere study session, scrutiny and examination when he could, calculated measures brimming at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t have charisma, or much kindness; any of the aforementioned were reserved for those who’d managed to climb the massive walls and fortifications he’d placed, he’d molded, he’d sculpted, he’d constructed. The Fae, strangers amongst strangers, were not currently in those particular spheres; and even as the basket merchant sidled up and began demonstrating, displaying, the various instruments used to capture the emblazoned sun, he stood in hushed irreverence, watching wings and catching hints.

It really didn’t matter in the end – bartering and business were interrupted by a familiar form – Delah, warrioress of the forest. He didn’t realize how little she was; and how it didn’t seem to matter that she could’ve easily been tread upon by either of the men, parting the seas of traffic and commerce, daring to glare at them. For his part, Deimos wasn’t intimidated, but knew, understood, that they were neither welcome (she’d made it abundantly clear even as Arduinna proffered their extensions) nor regarded well in the village – eyes rounding on them, waiting to see what would occur. He couldn’t pick a fight here, not one he’d win, not with so many of their own scattered amidst the square: he didn’t know much of these creatures at all, and to go into some form of barbarity, acrimony, and hostility would be downright inept and stupid. He was more calculating, forbearing, and skilled than that; they could take their leave, march down by the stream, and reconfigure what to do next. Or merely go home, as it had been suggested.

Though a part of him wanted to rebel just for the sake of insurrection.

The Reaper nodded his head, still quiet, but adhered to her request, turning back the way he’d come, presuming Jigano would follow, unless he interpreted everything else incorrectly and there’d be another rescue in the midst soon. “That went well,” he mused, diverted and entertained, an impish delight curling along his lips in the form of a snicker as he roamed further down the path. “There is another way to obtain baskets.” The great beast shrugged, then maneuvered himself out of range, down along the stream’s embankment, out of sight so it appeared as though they’d made haste, cleared out.

At that particular notion, he crouched down along the surface of the grass, imagining a basket of his own molding and creation, striving to exceed the one’s the merchant had been peddling. It flowed and pooled from his hands, manifested and exhibited as if it’d once been part of darker timber, stained in a vivid, harsh brown, woven and woven and woven again, taut, and rigid, and then he pulled back, glanced at the basket now sitting amidst the ether. It held the barest hint of snowflakes etched into some ridges of wood, little nuances and touches where it’d come from; before the warrior's head swung back to the bard. “What do you prefer?” He had his limitations in creating – but another basket similar to this one likely wouldn’t be too difficult.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
Change author:
Posts: 2,569
MP:
#9
Jigano had thought that their trading was off to a good start, and was warming up to some good old-fashioned haggling when a blade inserted herself into the conversation, slaying it instantly. The warchief was small but inarguably in charge and none too happy to find them lingering in her village, as she made abundantly clear once more, and never mind Arduinna's admonition to be hospitable. Jigano raised a brow at her scowling countenance, momentarily considering a sly retort, but a glance at the basket seller showed him to be well and truly cowed, and their trading over before it had ever really begun. The bard stifled a sigh, his attention shifting to Deimos as his brow shifted ever so slightly in orientation, a silent 'well?' of curiosity as to how the big man would respond.

Somewhat surprisingly, he chose retreat as the better part of valor, and Jigano wasn't foolish enough to face down the Fae chieftess on his own. He sketched her a quick bow and then turned to follow, noting that his companion's posture was anything but bowed in defeat. Not a rout, then, but a regrouping? The dark almost-amusement a moment later confirmed his suspicions, and he snorted at the understatement. "Exactly as I'd pictured it," he replied dryly as they slipped out of sight behind some bushes and towards the stream, the bard following the soldier's wake curiously now, wondering what he had in mind. "I suppose now that we know what they look like and what they're used for we can try to weave them ourselves," he began, cautiously. "I haven't done it since I was a child though..."

He had assumed they were going to get raw materials, but Deimos had something else in mind, crouching and concentrating in a way that made Jigano think oddly of Remi for a moment, and then wonder why--

The object that formed in the big man's hands from seeming nothingness was explanation enough, and Jigano let out a low whistle of admiration as he peered at the construct. "Nicely done! I'd appreciate something with..." he hesitated, realizing wryly that he still had no real heraldry or symbol of his own, too used to burying himself in obscurity. "Crescent moons, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he decided at last. "And... thank you." He hadn't expected an offering, and wouldn't have been surprised if Deimos had made one for himself and left the bard to try and weave some mess from wet reeds and childhood memories. That the other man was willing to make one for him as well as pleasantly unexpected, and forced Jigano to sit back on his heels and reconsider their morning's interaction in a different light as he watched his companion work his particular brand of magic.
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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,216
MP:
#10
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
Once – two lives had blended into one, been neither rough, callous, indifferent, or warm; before time spilled and spelled its colossal weight across the span of his shoulders, before the earth twisted, turned, and revolted against all the things he’d known and understood, before death and desecration were a natural part of his hands, before he watched lives, whole, real, tangible beings, become nothing but the earth. Before, before, before was like weighty chant, but not unreasonable: he’d been forbearing to his friends, to his allies, proffering his qualities however they required to be utilized. The General had been a weapon, the soldier had been a comrade, an ally, and the King had been otherworldly and disastrous, a ruin on the summit, destined to continue crumbling for the sake of his country, of his kin, of the people who only cared when he was a means to an end, when he could run the rest of the world into the dust and cinders. Deimos didn’t know what he was now, except crouched along the soil, doing his best to retain some sensation of amends for the way he’d always been.

He could’ve easily allowed Jigano to watch him whittle, watch him create, then leave him with naught – but he’d promised Amalia he’d try, and he wasn’t about to back out of a promise, out of a vow, out of an assurance. The beast was never even quite sure how to handle a thank you; he’d always nodded them away, cast them into his mind in manipulative tendencies, small favors and debts, collecting them for future moldings and intervals, endeavors of a time, of a place, when he’d exchanged and traded. Alliances had been easily forged in the same stead – liberation for liberation, repose for repose, when either side knew very well each were ticking time bombs, eager, fervent, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

So he did the same here: a shrug of his shoulders, a nonchalant veneer not betraying the confusion, the muddle, of his sentiments, no utter declarations made or enhanced. If anything, he was spurned and coaxed into further silence, brow furrowing in concentration as he concocted invocations again. Knives had been a bit easier, though whether or not because he enjoyed the sensation of munitions and blades in his grasp, or knew them well enough to recreate them, was beside the point; the enchantments came quickly again, pulsing and pervading along the surface of the loam at his direction and discretion. This basket was lighter in hue and coloration, as if it’d come from birch bark, gray and striped, but the crescent moons embedded within them were entirely white – he wasn’t sure where Jigano hailed from, but the Moon Goddess from Deimos’ old world was a patchwork of mystery, enigmas, and shrouds, not without her swords, her shields, or her armor – served the World’s Edge, the walls and land they’d lost. He didn’t form them in her honor or rectitude (another piece of rebellion and insurrection he couldn’t quite quantify or explain, but existed in his being, bitter and rancorous), but the patterns were clear and vivid, sketched and carved along the wood.

The beast glanced up, retreated from where he’d kneeled in the dirt, and presented the basket to the bard, piercing eyes waiting, head tilted, examining, scrutinizing again. “Is this suitable?”
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
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Posts: 2,569
MP:
#11
The big man shrugged and went to work once more, quiet but not, at least, unresponsive, and Jigano let the silence stretch between them. Not all bards knew the power of silence, but the ones who were good at what they were learned to weave it as deftly as song and story. Perhaps he was not so deft as he had once been, a world and a lifetime ago, but as a lorekeeper he was more comfortable in stillness than those who made their way by words alone. He crouched patiently amongst the reeds: a tall, slender, white-crested heron of a man as he watched Deimos’ hands and the magic that swirled and formed between them into a basket that was not a twin of the warrior’s, as Jigano had half-expected, with snowflakes traded out for crescent moons.

It seemed there was an artist hiding beneath the dark exterior, just as there had been a mischief-maker peeking out from behind the stony façade during their baking adventure. Prior to that Jigano had only known Deimos as a quiet, withdrawn presence on the edges of things. He had been at the Spire, asking for rational discussion when no one else seemed interested in such. He had been at the nearly-empty town hall meeting the bard had tried to call, looming in the back but offering nothing, either praise or criticism, of any topics raised. He was an enigma, still, a jumble of contradictions more than most, and Jigano’s contemplations were broken as the finished basket was presented to him.

He took it, admiring the moons that seemed to gleam from the grey bark of the magically-created birch branches, feeling its lightweight sturdiness with appreciation. ”More than suitable,” he assured the other man, a hint of a wicked smile tugging at the edges of his lips. ”And finer than the baskets we found at the merchant’s stall! Perhaps we can walk past it on the way back to meeting up with our friends…” And let the little man who had been so easily cowed by the warchief wonder where their lovely new baskets had come from, and which of his competitors had made the deal!
Only simple tables without images or background colors when threading, please. It's much appreciated!
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,216
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#12
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
Silence was one of his munitions, a part of him as old as time itself, imparted from years of scholarly reflections, then war-torn machinations, until they all unfurled in hushed, malicious rushes of iniquitous power; when the realms and kingdoms knew he didn’t have to say a word to have them all slain. It was a comfortable role and position, the witness, the bystander, the watcher, before he had to leap, dash, or assault; to observe, to study, to examine, to scrutinize, then unleash his cruelties, his actions, his reasons and motivations he deemed it satisfactory. It was easier to blend into the shadows, along the throngs and thralls of darkness, and let the rest of the worlds do the talking; plot their discourse so he could tilt his head, so he could partake in more devious, duplicitous acts, so he could ponder weaknesses and fault lines. Then sometimes, it was devised from patterns and habits, customary for him to fall into quietude and stillness while the rest of the kingdoms moved on; allowed him to erode and decay from the inside out, stare at the maneuvering voids and abysses, trying not to stumble and crack, splinter and fray, the moment the unexpected maneuvers were thrust his way. Here, hardly anyone asked his opinion on something (Outlander and Abandoned came with a double-edged sword), and when he dared to raise his head, his voice, above the crowd, the riot, the reckless, seething din, it hadn’t really mattered. So he bid his time, as he so often did, carving along the edges and fringes until he was required, listening, waiting. He was stone and marble. He was sword and shield. But ultimately, the Reaper was nothing but hollowed out and patient, composed on the borders, on the tethers, on the lines he proffered, on the walls he built, on the rubble he presided over.

Perhaps Jigano was the opposite: fluent and fluid, capable of charms and discourse, always seemingly in the middle of everything. He flaunted ideas and theories, facts and conjectures, organized guilds and sought out lore. He fostered connections, while Deimos hovered, slinking along the perimeters (a predator; the carnivore chase), until some curious souls plucked him into their orbit, poked away at his carefully-maintained bricks and facades.

When his craft was deemed more than suitable, the beast merely nodded again, not sure what else to say or do, hands no longer busy, not toiling at weapons, warcraft, or newly-forged baskets. His piercing gaze, however, did manage to catch Jigano’s more vicious, wicked grin (finer than the Fae’s indeed; which was just as much as a compliment as he could hope to receive, since his first intentions were to always outdo). “Perhaps,” he proffered back with the margin of his own mischief in the gleam of a smirk; boyish again, an interlude to the days long since gone, when he concocted schemes with the rest of his childhood friends, pledging swords and arms to gain and pilfer pies off of windowsills. He grabbed hold of his basket again, the framework of snow and ice laden firmly in his grasp (rime and twin monoliths, gazing down at strangers; a warning, an ultimatum, a recipe for disaster if they intruded, if they stepped any farther), ready to catch the sun, to tease and torment. Then he intended to return to the same trail, meandering at the entrance to see if Delah had left; the ruse would be had if their capable warrior remained, turning to glance at Jigano, to ensure he was following.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate
Jigano Silversmith
the Sage
Provost of the Loreseekers Soul Shepherd
Portal Guardian
Age: 29 | Height: 6'2" | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 10 (Level 5 Abandoned) - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 31 - Luck: 31
ISUMA - Mythical - Gryphon (venomous)
Played by: Cirago Offline
Change author:
Posts: 2,569
MP:
#13
As had been made clear on this venture, he had no idea what to expect of Deimos, or how he would respond to the bard's tentative offer of shared mischief. Though perhaps 'pettiness' was the more honest term for it, something he admitted to himself without much in the way of shame. The Fae were unwilling hosts, but Jigano and his people were unwilling guests, when it came down to it. They had explored in innocent curiosity, seeking to alleviate their ignorance of the world and learn what the native-born people had been denied for three hundred years, even their gods-given knowledge of the world outside centuries out of date. If Delah or one of her people had simply confronted them and told them to leave...

Well. Jigano and Amalia both would have tried to beg and cajole, coax and plead around it, but in the end the bard liked to think that they would have tried to find a way to respect the wishes of the Fae, if only to prevent hostilities with a powerful northern neighbor from spilling over into the rest of the Hollowed Grounds. But the sneaking, secretive ambushes and haughty disdain for the outsiders had backfired on the warchief, resulting in not only her captives but now the rescuers as well cluttering up her village. And maybe a nobler heart would have felt bad for that... but after the way she had behaved, 'mischievous and petty' fitted the fox-souled bard perfectly well.

And, it would seem, Deimos was not above such actions either as he smirked his agreement and rose to lead the way back to the market. Jigano followed in his wake, lifting his basket to examine the workmanship again in subtle display to those they passed, tracing a crescent moon with a fingertip as he once more considered the way Amalia had greeted Deimos the day before. Nor had the big man been oblivious to her dark-eyed fascination, utterly distracted by the graceful baker, and fonder memories of their time making Fiat Lux bread laid gently over the newer memories of discord and friction, softening their edges. "Perhaps..." he murmured thoughtfully, innocently, "perhaps Amalia would like a basket, as well? A gift for putting warm bread in once it's out of the oven. A design of stars and hearts might suit her, do you think?" Kiada, he thought, would definitely approve, but he watched Deimos with sly blue eyes to see what he would think of such a suggestion, without being so gauche as to outright ask if the big man had more than friendly interest in the young woman who had claimed her place in the bard's heart as family.
Only simple tables without images or background colors when threading, please. It's much appreciated!
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 25 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 25
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,216
MP:
#14
D e i m o s
Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass
Pettiness should’ve been above the once King, but it wasn’t, far from it; sometimes actively doing things fortified out of pure spite. Scars for scars. Brutality for brutality. Sin for sin. He’d stolen another because they’d taken one of his. He’d assaulted because others had threatened. He’d mauled and murdered when warnings were ignored. Payback, vengeance, and justice were blades and rapiers he’d often wield, and though this wasn’t entirely the case as they roamed back through the village, basket in his grasp, the sheen of snow carved into the niche of woodwork, the sensation of pride and revenge roamed back over him. It was likely unfounded and a tad ridiculous, but he wanted them to see a mere side, a glimpse, into what he could do, into what he could craft, into what he could muster given half a chance; more than a weapon, more than a shield, more than a beast. His gaze was solely on the intertwining path, on the squares, on the sod earth, then lifting, higher and higher, until it reached the canopies, not glancing towards the Fae, a tower, a monolith, a restless spirit intertwined and blended into the formation of their whittled sculptures, goods, and wares. The Reaper’s steps were neither quick nor meandering, less savage but more calculated, precise, measured, devout in their irreverence, only casting his stare away from the treetops and stalls when Jigano’s innocent query meandered its way into his ears.

Then he stiffened – taut and rigid again, shoulders and spine straightening, the barest hint of discomfort etching its way into his skin. Not for the subject at hand, but how close it played to his bones, to his flesh, to his heart and soul; and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, thinking about subverting and skirting around the topic altogether. It was safer that way – for he and Amalia alone, unless she preferred it out in the open and gliding along the wind; he was apprehensive for a multitude of reasons, vulnerability being the main consternation. His guard was down for her, but not for many others (Kiada and Rexanna eternally included in the fold; because they’d seen him at his absolute worst and still bothered to remain in his orbit). He shrugged, then turned back to staring at the various kiosks, a vivid pretense. “Stars.” The beast admitted with a nod, because it was an obvious representation of Amalia; embossed and embedded in luminary fixtures, singing Jyoti pulsing around her, gazing up at the heavens, causing him to utter another declaration. “Some suns.” Deimos could confess the idea wasn’t a bad notion at all, and added the basket to a list of things to proffer and extend to her when he saw the baker next.
For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate


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