DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
The Reaper almost always followed up on his endeavors, on his promises, on his vows. It was a confidence, a conviction, crooned and rendered from life in the mountains, where they either lived or died by the promises of refugees, then the cruelty of their machinations. Here would be different – he’d yet to have to utilize his intentions, his schemes, for anything other than prosperity or protection. It could be the same here and now, amidst the halls of the Artisan’s Guild, where creatures strived to create and enable masterpieces, where he wouldn’t be such a lone wolf howling in the dark. It wasn’t the wilderness of the Aurora Basin, or the roaring cascade of the World’s Edge, the beatific grandeur of the Moonlit Tides, or the marching orders and training grounds of military men. But it was something, a beginning, more than a means to an end, and he’d sink his teeth into it to the best of his abilities. He nodded, noting the information, the change in seasons, the abrupt alterations laying them all to waste, tucking away the sigh, the frustration, suddenly burning its way through his lungs. “That is fine, and understandable.” He’d have to do some investigating for himself, the constant curiosity surging forward, on and on and on into his Machiavellian mind. The Reaper then glanced back towards the alchemist, not yearning to leave him alone if he required any other information or necessities. “Do you need anything before I explore?” Before he sojourned on and wandered into the stalls, into this new habitat, shelter, and sanctum?
They're wrong
