DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Back at home chiseled its way into his chest: because, once, he’d had a home that trained their skilled mages too, that prided themselves upon ensuring they were strong and capable, instead of shunning, instead of insisting they were abandoned and desolate, instead of treating them with misgivings and shrugs. But that was gone now, all of it, every inch decimated and cloaked in shadow; here, he was left in the dark, traversing upon unknown paths and embarking along infernal gallows, twisting and turning until he thought he’d found the right one. Maybe, in time, he could concoct his own too – emblems and items that weren’t so uniform, but enchanted, with more purpose, with more potential. The Reaper left the thoughts to simmer, brew, brood, and fume for a later designation, when he’d had more time to contemplate the role, the growth, the enigmas curling their way around each and every form. He did, however, arch a brow, unleash the slightest chuckle at Remi’s last statement on the matter. “Perhaps they have everything to do with you.”
But then hands were shaken, released, and he was pulled into the horde of the Artisan’s Guild – which, remarkably, was something he never would’ve ever thought of doing or accomplishing. He was a warrior. He was a soldier. He was occasionally, a menace, a cretin, a fiend, a wild hound chasing down the decibels of darkness, disaster, and desecration: not a beast meant to manufacture or create. Somewhere along the line though, he’d managed to adhere to these abilities, to forge a new outline, a new trail to sojourn upon. It wasn’t the Aurora Basin, with its blistering, scathing chords and its harnessed capabilities to blister, burn, and wreak havoc, it wasn’t crusades, troops dispatched to unleash terror and tyranny in the name of their king, foreign, but enticing all the same. Like a predator, he lifted his head into the wind and gazed out over the scenery again, suddenly allowed to be enthralled and immersed within its threshold. “Thank you,” he mused, tone dropping into something appreciative and careful, as if one wrong move would ensure he was no longer involved in their ministrations. “Is there anything that needs to be done for the guild?" Did any buildings needed to be converted? Did any stalls require a helping hand? There was an inclination coiled in his sanction, wild-eyed and desperate, continually willing to give back to those who granted things to him (because he didn’t deserve them).
But then hands were shaken, released, and he was pulled into the horde of the Artisan’s Guild – which, remarkably, was something he never would’ve ever thought of doing or accomplishing. He was a warrior. He was a soldier. He was occasionally, a menace, a cretin, a fiend, a wild hound chasing down the decibels of darkness, disaster, and desecration: not a beast meant to manufacture or create. Somewhere along the line though, he’d managed to adhere to these abilities, to forge a new outline, a new trail to sojourn upon. It wasn’t the Aurora Basin, with its blistering, scathing chords and its harnessed capabilities to blister, burn, and wreak havoc, it wasn’t crusades, troops dispatched to unleash terror and tyranny in the name of their king, foreign, but enticing all the same. Like a predator, he lifted his head into the wind and gazed out over the scenery again, suddenly allowed to be enthralled and immersed within its threshold. “Thank you,” he mused, tone dropping into something appreciative and careful, as if one wrong move would ensure he was no longer involved in their ministrations. “Is there anything that needs to be done for the guild?" Did any buildings needed to be converted? Did any stalls require a helping hand? There was an inclination coiled in his sanction, wild-eyed and desperate, continually willing to give back to those who granted things to him (because he didn’t deserve them).
They're wrong
