DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Amalia might seemed like an indication that Remi knew something else, but Deimos restrained the snort billowing in his lungs and simply smirked, presuming the alchemist wouldn’t see the break in his reticence. It was an intriguing notion – he could always seek out those who constantly sought out information, after all the other tempestuous nuances and discourses, it seemed almost mundane in comparison. However, Remi’s abilities were not, and his eyes took on a more fascinated, riveted position as he described and recalled the things he’d already concocted and created. “Would I be able to do that too? Given enough time?” Or were there other stipulations and factors at work, other enchantments come to play and sizzle in their veins? He took the statement on working for Zariah into the back of his head, a later contemplating to chew upon; before they circled back to the possibility of him being enrolled in the Artisan’s Guild.
Perhaps the inquiry seemed bizarre – the way Remi frowned, the way confusion muddled his features – but Deimos had thrived in the military, where there was more to just enlisting. There was training. There were practice skirmishes. There were duels. There were fights. The weak, the broken, the chaff weren’t permitted past certain regulations – and he wasn’t certain if that was how the rest of the world worked. Would he need to create something else, in order to show them his talents? Would he have to pass a test? Were there other contortions and portions to consider? While he mused, Remi merely stuck his hand out - nothing at all - a breath of fresh air, relief, belonging surging into his chest again, tucking and wrapping around the nefarious chambers of his cold, dead heart. Slowly, as if it was a ruse, a trick, he shook the alchemist’s hand, strong and enduring, and proclaimed his intentions. “I would like to.”
Perhaps the inquiry seemed bizarre – the way Remi frowned, the way confusion muddled his features – but Deimos had thrived in the military, where there was more to just enlisting. There was training. There were practice skirmishes. There were duels. There were fights. The weak, the broken, the chaff weren’t permitted past certain regulations – and he wasn’t certain if that was how the rest of the world worked. Would he need to create something else, in order to show them his talents? Would he have to pass a test? Were there other contortions and portions to consider? While he mused, Remi merely stuck his hand out - nothing at all - a breath of fresh air, relief, belonging surging into his chest again, tucking and wrapping around the nefarious chambers of his cold, dead heart. Slowly, as if it was a ruse, a trick, he shook the alchemist’s hand, strong and enduring, and proclaimed his intentions. “I would like to.”
They're wrong
