DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
Though it hadn’t been tossed out into the ether to be a compliment (and the Reaper was not a beast sent to bolster any egos), but an observation of Remi’s prowess, strength, and regard, it still managed to garner a blush from the alchemist. Deimos fought hard not to arch his brow and chuckle; perhaps Remi had never considered his own might and capabilities. Maybe it would be remedied in the future, when walls came down and individuals united beneath a banner of vitriol and hostility. Maybe it wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t raise his head, wouldn’t see past the shadows and the stark, vivid outlines, incapable of seeing the measure of his worth.
But then he seemed to consider the other implications, about what was necessary for those who frequented the guild, those who remained and worked, those who chiseled and sculpted. Deimos was aware that some tasks were designated in other organizations: warriors in his division had always been delegated other duties when they returned from battle, when they’d rested from their wounds. Benches and stations didn’t seem very difficult: he could craft some quickly, either with his own two hands or the magic instilled, gleaning, below the surface. The beast considered the others’ and their occupations, Samuel with books (and he wondered the subject matter, the scholarly mind his mother had instilled suddenly intermingled with curiosity), Are the cobbler (someone not known to him at all) – and then Remi himself, with his workstation littered with a variety of inventions. “I can do that,” he nodded, considering the booths and stalls, the rows requiring pieces of foundation and tables, places to put more wares, tools, measures and nuances, notes scrawled across outlines and sketches. He could always ask as he went around – he supposed – though inquiry caught him again, probably when poor Remi simply wanted him to go away. “How many belong to the guild?” Who? What did they create? Was it all done by magic, or their abilities, their talents, like his blade, ingrained within them from a young age?
But then he seemed to consider the other implications, about what was necessary for those who frequented the guild, those who remained and worked, those who chiseled and sculpted. Deimos was aware that some tasks were designated in other organizations: warriors in his division had always been delegated other duties when they returned from battle, when they’d rested from their wounds. Benches and stations didn’t seem very difficult: he could craft some quickly, either with his own two hands or the magic instilled, gleaning, below the surface. The beast considered the others’ and their occupations, Samuel with books (and he wondered the subject matter, the scholarly mind his mother had instilled suddenly intermingled with curiosity), Are the cobbler (someone not known to him at all) – and then Remi himself, with his workstation littered with a variety of inventions. “I can do that,” he nodded, considering the booths and stalls, the rows requiring pieces of foundation and tables, places to put more wares, tools, measures and nuances, notes scrawled across outlines and sketches. He could always ask as he went around – he supposed – though inquiry caught him again, probably when poor Remi simply wanted him to go away. “How many belong to the guild?” Who? What did they create? Was it all done by magic, or their abilities, their talents, like his blade, ingrained within them from a young age?
They're wrong
