DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Perhaps Remi was simply too kind to state Deimos had been practically useless. He hadn’t been beneficial to the team at all: between getting smacked, beaten, and demolished, his attacks had waxed and waned, largely ineffective, stabbing measures coming up empty, death incantations sometimes bounding off to nowhere. His precision and control had been pathetic at best – something he prided himself on, the ability to withstand, to endure, to persevere, and without any of that he’d been utterly lost. “I did not,” he shook his head, even though Remi wouldn’t be able to see the variance, he’d be able to hear it in his voice, a counter to the softened requiem. “Without you or Isla, I would be dead.” It was the veracity, the truth of the matter: gone on the cavern floor, bloodied and ineffectual, an engraving on a rocky tombstone and colossal sepulcher, no one deciding to bring him back, purposeless and stranded, third chances and tries not the charm.
He leaned down, knees spread so he could lower himself to be eye-level with the alchemist, even if the green stare was now poised in a pale, affixed hue, tilting his head for a moment to study, then dropping his skull entirely, shifting through the bag to display, announce, the artifacts he’d carried and carted around. It wouldn’t do any good to show Remi, but he could at least explain. “I brought some things for both of you, to thank you.” It was how he brandished and branded his affection, his acknowledgments, words sometimes failing, utterly useless when actions were not – his craftmanship, his movements, his motions, far more eloquent than he could ever be. His hands wrapped around some fruit, stretched out his fingers to place them on the bench beside Remi. “Some apples,” he paused, grabbed hold of a smaller bag within the larger container, and placed it with a heavy thud next to the crimson food. “And oats for Isla.” Then, thereafter, because he was a man of weaponry, of swords and knives, his hands extended in their golden glow – a ripple of invocations and elements coming together to whittle and manifest a dagger. Remi could likely make his own, but it was a weighted thing, perfect for throwing with deadly accuracy, a unicorn notched at the hilt, emblazoned at the top. Gently, he pulled at Remi’s fingers until one of his hands was open and flat, placing the stiletto there. “For you.” The beast paused, musing, silent, waiting for a refusal, a rebuttal, and being incapable of taking either. “When your sight returns, I can train you to throw it.”
He leaned down, knees spread so he could lower himself to be eye-level with the alchemist, even if the green stare was now poised in a pale, affixed hue, tilting his head for a moment to study, then dropping his skull entirely, shifting through the bag to display, announce, the artifacts he’d carried and carted around. It wouldn’t do any good to show Remi, but he could at least explain. “I brought some things for both of you, to thank you.” It was how he brandished and branded his affection, his acknowledgments, words sometimes failing, utterly useless when actions were not – his craftmanship, his movements, his motions, far more eloquent than he could ever be. His hands wrapped around some fruit, stretched out his fingers to place them on the bench beside Remi. “Some apples,” he paused, grabbed hold of a smaller bag within the larger container, and placed it with a heavy thud next to the crimson food. “And oats for Isla.” Then, thereafter, because he was a man of weaponry, of swords and knives, his hands extended in their golden glow – a ripple of invocations and elements coming together to whittle and manifest a dagger. Remi could likely make his own, but it was a weighted thing, perfect for throwing with deadly accuracy, a unicorn notched at the hilt, emblazoned at the top. Gently, he pulled at Remi’s fingers until one of his hands was open and flat, placing the stiletto there. “For you.” The beast paused, musing, silent, waiting for a refusal, a rebuttal, and being incapable of taking either. “When your sight returns, I can train you to throw it.”
They're wrong
