DEIMOS
They arrive: a party of rebels and seditious individuals, yearning to impart their knowledge, their experiences, their aspirations, their ambitions, into a mired refrain. Revolutions had never been built in a day, not when the wounds still stung, not when the lacerations still ached, not when there was a host of hatred and malice curling, conjoining, over jagged edges and frayed ends – but it was a starting point, a measure, a reason for their crew. Insurrection bled and burned its way into his foundation, and his eyes glanced over the others that followed the mutinous calls: Jigano, Rory, Ronin, Remi, a fellow he didn’t recognize but seemed irritated (more the merrier), Wessex, and Kiada. To each he gave a nod, and to some, like a favored harpy, he gave a very perceptible glance (ice King to fiery figure; a ruffian, rogue edge, a blessing for patience when he knew it was difficult).
But then Amalia spoke, and he listened, features returned to a cool, composed, chilling demeanor, even as his pride for her audacity, her boldness, plumed in his chest. The beast absorbed her speech, the adoration for the lands, the calling for unions instead of constant, drawn lines – as they were now, in the midst of the Merciless’ clamor and din. His eyes drifted back to those gathered, Naturals and Outlanders alike, already seeking mergers and fusion just by sheer necessity and common motives. It was happening, occurring, without the menial labor – they all knew one another, they all understood one another (to certain degrees), and respect, however begrudging, was instilled. Couldn’t they accomplish something with this lot?
Her nomination for leaders: Rory and Ronin, was a tactful, admirable one. Rory, the one who’d called for fire and flames and riots amidst the din of the Spire Monster’s defeat, and Ronin, the one who’d died and been brought back again, resurrected for purpose. Deimos nodded his assent and approval. “I second the nomination.” Then, perhaps, they could get to work.
But then Amalia spoke, and he listened, features returned to a cool, composed, chilling demeanor, even as his pride for her audacity, her boldness, plumed in his chest. The beast absorbed her speech, the adoration for the lands, the calling for unions instead of constant, drawn lines – as they were now, in the midst of the Merciless’ clamor and din. His eyes drifted back to those gathered, Naturals and Outlanders alike, already seeking mergers and fusion just by sheer necessity and common motives. It was happening, occurring, without the menial labor – they all knew one another, they all understood one another (to certain degrees), and respect, however begrudging, was instilled. Couldn’t they accomplish something with this lot?
Her nomination for leaders: Rory and Ronin, was a tactful, admirable one. Rory, the one who’d called for fire and flames and riots amidst the din of the Spire Monster’s defeat, and Ronin, the one who’d died and been brought back again, resurrected for purpose. Deimos nodded his assent and approval. “I second the nomination.” Then, perhaps, they could get to work.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
