[KQ] i wanna give you back the open sky

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame There was only one brief, beatific moment where he watched the bugs withering, dying, before him, and felt a sense of triumph. He’d contributed. He’d done something. It was gone on the shimmer of fire mixing with gas – and a rippling blast sending him against a wall, clashing into the interior with a ferocious, voracious pain assaulting, grinding, clawing up and down his sides. It scalded and reached on the tips of intermingled fire, scarring tissue and piercing his flesh, his hands going over his clothing to try and pat it out on instinct, the searing, blistering heat intermingling with his senses. He could do nothing but growl, hiss, and groan, throwing his head down and contemplating his next action – genuinely surprised he was still alive while his body was tormented and anguished. Was he doomed to die here too, lost in the fumes and smoke? “Nevermind,” he coughed and sputtered, hinting about the fire, trying to salvage some bitter, broken, part of him, blue eyes drifting over to Vai and waving off her ember incantations - no more it begged and pleaded, and then his gaze drifted elsewhere, desperation seething behind his aching head. There was a notion of exhausting just behind his gaze too, a hint, a strain, that he’d pushed himself too far, that the enchantments, the invocations, coursing through his veins were nearly spent too. A crimson glow flickered in his vision. Amalia’s staff had been thrown in the blast, but had landed near his left knee, a bright, incandescent red billowing back at him. Without any other words, just obvious bouts of pain, he reached for it – but didn’t have any idea how to work the staff. Please, he begged, because he didn’t want to meet his demise (again), here in these crypts and dungeons. Perhaps he should’ve promised not to continue wandering into these ridiculous traps and snares, but it was too late now. He waved it above his form, over pulsing wounds and punishing lacerations, over his lungs that seethed and burned despite the mask. Please. His gaze landed on vines nearby, threatening to strangle Delah and Jigano. From his current distance, he wasn’t certain if he’d be able to command precision, much less even launch his intentions from a necessary height, but it was worth a try. He grabbed hold of two throwing knives still managing to remain on his belt, and tossed them at the vines, hoping they could either stab into the plant life, or at least be useful to those fighting them off – then the Reaper threw his head back against the wall and merely tried to remain. Lord, he was so tired of being useless. -- Deimos tries to heal himself using Amalia’s staff, then tries to toss some throwing knives at the vines holding Jigano and Delah. If they don’t work, hey now you have some new weapons. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace