Serenity

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts She could draw interesting conclusions based on a fundamental lack of details: anyone could carry a dagger. He could give a small toddler a knife. He could give a goat a stiletto. Neither would indicate whether or not the child, or the farm animal, had an ability to utilize magic. As he walked, further and further away, and she kept talking, inquiring, prying, he was reminded of Jigano: and intended to play the same game, purposefully defiant, no clear notations or answers. “Not necessarily.” He shrugged, tucking the dagger back into his belt, felt her gaze, her eyes on him; wondered what he’d done to continue garnishing the attention. If he was oblivious and obnoxious enough with his veiled, shrouded responses, perhaps she’d go away and leave him be – it was a hope. He crept along the shadows again, blending into the darkness, familiar and another enriched haven, an essence he could breathe in, a sharp inhale, a glimpse into the Stygian void. She kept remarking upon his potential heron kill, how he wouldn’t have liked it – but sometimes meat was meat, and if one was starving (like some, like many, left to their own devices) they’d long to snatch and grab whatever they could. The beast prowled and didn’t remark upon that though, slowly intertwining himself down to the water’s edge, yearning for twilight to make its appearance. Clearly you don’t know me bristled along the horizon – and he turned towards her then, arching a brow, piercing gaze scrutinizing her for a few moments. She might have been familiar, but between the echoes, the throngs, the upheavals, the damned disasters, he couldn’t put a name to a face. She hadn’t been amidst the people gathered for their Fae meeting. She hadn’t been toiling in the cave, striving to rescue friends. He couldn’t recall her lingering in the outskirts of the fey woods, neither spirited away nor playing amidst the river’s song. “No. I have not seen you around.” He tilted his head, a thorough, carnivore irreverence, before leaning down, dipping his fingers into the water, toying with the surface. “I am Deimos. Who are you?” the last of a line of lasts