[RE] Strike up the band

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos gathered and ran, chucking as many kindling pieces as he could, far, far, far off into the distance, then racing back to perform the same rotation, a cycle, not daring to glance at the fire and see how much closer it had seethed and raged. The heat sizzled along his skin, a dutiful reminder of power, of stings, of wounds that could do far more than simply singe. He wouldn’t have stopped or ceased at all in his movements, except to avoid others in the mutual panic and planning, had a voice not pierced through the din, calling his name. It was laced in concern, which he found so utterly odd because he couldn’t remember a time anyone gave a damn about what happened to him – he’d always been the beast running headlong, heedlessly, recklessly, into the tremors of treachery and brutality without batting an eye, his duty, his occupation, a noble, stalwart march for a fiend, for an infidel, for a constant, brooding machine. Maybe no one had bothered because he’d frequently come across as capable (the King will take care of it), or they were just as indifferent about him; pathetic, sad, and forlorn, another piece of his detached, isolated pinnacle. So he was shocked and surprised, no matter their previous conversations, when Amalia ventured closer and closer, and he parted his mouth to shout back for her to stay away (not veering nearer to danger; where he stood, right on the edge of stupidity and bravery), turning, twisting back towards her with his arms full of another stack of twigs and moss “Amalia-“ was all he managed to choke out before a sudden implosion hit his chest. The collision ordinarily might not have knocked him off his feet at all – his figure was more than competent and proficient in withstanding a significant amount of force – but between the distractions, the fire, and his hands otherwise occupied, he had little chance of remaining upright. The beast landed on his back awkwardly, with a hiss, with a growl, leaving his lungs, eyes widening briefly, struggling to find the source of the impact, while his senses seared and burned from the incoming inferno. One of the sticks that had been in his grasp suddenly burst into flame; eclipsing the depths of his piercing eyes with the notion of apprehension – perhaps the first time it’d been initiated by fire. These weren’t his father’s flames, somewhat controlled and enlightened by a rogue, embellished boldness, a twinkle in his gaze; they harbored destruction and swallowed, consumed, intending to devour them whole. He shook his head, raising up on his arms just enough to regard the thing that had struck him, neither friend, foe, or ember, but a girl. “You all right?” His head tilted, uncertain of where she’d come from, giving her a chance to slip off of him before he rose – perhaps he should’ve been grateful for the entire exploit, because otherwise the wood might’ve burned and scaled up his flesh, licking it away in boiling anguish. “Thank you,” he extended to her, the little stranger, before rounding his head back to Amalia, who’d reached their sides fairly quickly, nodding his head, no worse for the wear. The worry in her gaze slid down his spine, and he felt ridiculous in that moment, causing unease and consternation when he should’ve been more tactful – his hands grazed over her fingers quickly, and then it didn’t really matter, because the wall of flames extended, rippling, courting and cavorting around them until it seethed and simmered in an unsung, unholy promise. Hurry it conveyed, like a sliding smirk, like an echoing snicker. I’ll take them all. He worked quickly, acted accordingly, while the fire was still small and smoking around them, broken cinders intending to catch and snag on each and every bite of nourishment. He kicked away a few more sticks closer to their feet, then simply heaved a few others, well over their current combustive site. The warrior didn’t have the time to relish and mire himself in his foolishness; the machinations and calculations were already honing in, bright and blistering, seething and smoldering despite the smoke, despite the heat. “Sorry,” he administered the briefest of apologies for the incoming motions towards the stranger, extending safety for safety, a regard for a regard, reaching down to grab hold of her waist, intending to launch her clear over the rim of the fire – out of harm’s way. It was abrupt, but he strived to make it as considerate and efficient as possible. His gaze swerved to Amalia, the lightest, ghost of a grin on his features (even in the darkest moments, a touch of mischief), before gathering her up in his arms too. There was no time to enjoy the measures, to even tease or taunt further, lifting her over the flames and then following in her stead, leaping, touching down upon earth. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace