DEIMOS
He stood as a mountain, as a Colossus, as a fortress, gathering those he cared for around him. He was a protective munition, a monolith, wishing he could somehow tuck and hide them away from the incoming bellows and blows; but there were the realities of the present moments, no matter how strained or taut. At first there seemed to be nothing but silence, the air of hushed animosity, the brushstrokes of impending fire, arrival after arrival, all waiting for the same purpose. What was the Merciless going to say? What were the rest of them going to add? He arched his brow only a minute amount when Remi meandered behind them, then rooted himself directly in front of the alchemist: uncertain as to why he was concealing his appearance, but managing to block out a great portion of his form. He could be a shadow too, ensuring the strikes of the sun didn’t scorch or emblazon another.
Then it began: words upon words upon words, a politician’s main weapon, a leader that was needed with no one in the current contingent ever asking, every requiring, her presence on the throne. It sounded like a cobbled-together story, some narrative she’d managed to wield like a bedtime story for children – he held back the scoff, the snort, threatening to billow its way through his chest. Instead, a younger man took to the task of speaking, and though it wasn’t eloquent, it provided the spark, the incitement, the kindling of a number of concerns. Had the venue not been fraught with tumultuous ends already, the Reaper would have clapped for the boy – for his derision, for his defiance, for his bravery, for his audacity. Zariah didn’t seem to find as much enjoyment in it, answers supplied, at the ready, explanations derived in unity, yet not to gather amongst themselves (prevention, to cease rabble and insurrection – the mob at the Spire a likely understanding), a schism in contradictions. Thereafter was Jigano, whom he’d expected would have a host of things to say – but it was the scars, the healing, the lacerations reopened, the wounds resurfacing, that the Reaper paid heed to. It was a cycle all over again, coarse and barbaric, something the Merciless seemed to thrive within, grow along, diving straight into the fathoms of their prior mishaps. Zariah’s response was utterly ridiculous and condescending, allowing Emmett to speak for a lengthy period of time, but not Jigano – he clenched his jaw and said nothing, in the refinement of naught and endless diatribes, discourse that went nowhere, ringing around and around with no designation. Lead them to prosperity as they all simmered and seethed. Right.
At the very least, the information Ronin managed to embark from their Queen made some plausible sense – though she clearly still didn’t understand the meaning of enlistment. This was a draft, plain and simple – ensuring everyone signed their names under penalty of the law was never a voluntary notice.
Then there was some other poor fool, wishing for happiness and joy, exuberance and wonder, kindness and benevolence. The warrior nearly shook his head, but remained stoic, the reticent features maneuvering back into marble, hiding the wince when Zariah’s words came back to haunt the unknown soul.
He could feel Amalia’s hand in his, squeezing, likely anchoring herself as much as him, and he didn’t know what to do, what to say, that would add or disengage from this hell. Kiada, bold and audacious, did the speaking for all of them, and his chest clenched with something like pride as she insinuated her thoughts. His world had those cabinets, those positions, for those with talents in spying, in battle, in healing, in piety, in engineering – but he wasn’t offering those regards to the Merciless.
In response – there came the advisor positions. His eyes flickered back over to Rexanna, and he didn’t know whether to shake his head, grind his teeth, or do nothing at all – uncertain about any Natural stepping forward, willing to take up the role, willing to gnash and hold their tongue, willing to embark down the unknown road, but sure to be lined with rubble and ruin. One name came to mind, and though she wasn't present, likely off doing her own things, she might've been capable of upholding exactly what these inhabitants required. "I nominate Wessex to be a Natural advisor, if she is willing."
Then it began: words upon words upon words, a politician’s main weapon, a leader that was needed with no one in the current contingent ever asking, every requiring, her presence on the throne. It sounded like a cobbled-together story, some narrative she’d managed to wield like a bedtime story for children – he held back the scoff, the snort, threatening to billow its way through his chest. Instead, a younger man took to the task of speaking, and though it wasn’t eloquent, it provided the spark, the incitement, the kindling of a number of concerns. Had the venue not been fraught with tumultuous ends already, the Reaper would have clapped for the boy – for his derision, for his defiance, for his bravery, for his audacity. Zariah didn’t seem to find as much enjoyment in it, answers supplied, at the ready, explanations derived in unity, yet not to gather amongst themselves (prevention, to cease rabble and insurrection – the mob at the Spire a likely understanding), a schism in contradictions. Thereafter was Jigano, whom he’d expected would have a host of things to say – but it was the scars, the healing, the lacerations reopened, the wounds resurfacing, that the Reaper paid heed to. It was a cycle all over again, coarse and barbaric, something the Merciless seemed to thrive within, grow along, diving straight into the fathoms of their prior mishaps. Zariah’s response was utterly ridiculous and condescending, allowing Emmett to speak for a lengthy period of time, but not Jigano – he clenched his jaw and said nothing, in the refinement of naught and endless diatribes, discourse that went nowhere, ringing around and around with no designation. Lead them to prosperity as they all simmered and seethed. Right.
At the very least, the information Ronin managed to embark from their Queen made some plausible sense – though she clearly still didn’t understand the meaning of enlistment. This was a draft, plain and simple – ensuring everyone signed their names under penalty of the law was never a voluntary notice.
Then there was some other poor fool, wishing for happiness and joy, exuberance and wonder, kindness and benevolence. The warrior nearly shook his head, but remained stoic, the reticent features maneuvering back into marble, hiding the wince when Zariah’s words came back to haunt the unknown soul.
He could feel Amalia’s hand in his, squeezing, likely anchoring herself as much as him, and he didn’t know what to do, what to say, that would add or disengage from this hell. Kiada, bold and audacious, did the speaking for all of them, and his chest clenched with something like pride as she insinuated her thoughts. His world had those cabinets, those positions, for those with talents in spying, in battle, in healing, in piety, in engineering – but he wasn’t offering those regards to the Merciless.
In response – there came the advisor positions. His eyes flickered back over to Rexanna, and he didn’t know whether to shake his head, grind his teeth, or do nothing at all – uncertain about any Natural stepping forward, willing to take up the role, willing to gnash and hold their tongue, willing to embark down the unknown road, but sure to be lined with rubble and ruin. One name came to mind, and though she wasn't present, likely off doing her own things, she might've been capable of upholding exactly what these inhabitants required. "I nominate Wessex to be a Natural advisor, if she is willing."
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
