wash away our sore eyed souls

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The clamor on him, on his faults, on his offenses, on his inability to get back to the Spire via Kiada’s insistence seemed to spark some sort of camaraderie  - jovial and glad he couldn’t return. He took another long swig of his drink and wished it would burn him right there on the spot, the we cannot live without risk statement spearing and harpooning him somewhere in the middle. What if no one was there? they prodded and made sense, even in the Harpy’s drunken state, and he had half an inclination lower his head and pout, sulk, brood, feeling no need to answer the inquiries. Not now. Not when they’d survived and made it past this point, dug deep into their sorrow and were left out in the open, fending for themselves. Kiada’s rambling diatribes though did cause him to raise his brows, lift his skull, because he hadn’t heard that particular tale of LongNight, and things made a lot more sense, even with the plunge of alcohol coiling itself amidst their gathering. Even still, when he stood up from the chairs, from the tables, one hand enclosed in the baker’s, he grabbed hold of the remaining liquor near Kiada and shoved it into his arms – the shallowest snicker touching over his lips. Then, despite all the predilections, the exhaustion, the mental fatigue, they still wanted to see his companion. His companion - bizarre and confounding, but still no less real, a tangible, corporeal thing right outside the door. Placing the bottles down on the floor, he opened the bakery door, out into the vivid, cool evening, a press of chill curling against his skin, a promise of something from another time, another world (and he almost went back to it, right then and there) – the unicorn rising from her guarding position. Unspoken, unsaid, because there were connections and bonds now, the mare took hold of the invitations and presided in with little to no fanfare: a recognizable staff clutched in her maw. She dropped it into his waiting (sheepishly) grasp, before her own remarkable blue gaze took in the rest of them. The darker layers of her silver coat were varnished in the crisp moonlight, traced over foundations of earth and spirits and essences of enigmatic, ethereal, otherworldly connotations – something he didn’t deserve, wasn’t worthy of, a notion he rekindled and incensed over and over, struggling, striving, to remind everyone and everything that he was naught, he was naught – “This is Zuriel,” he offered into the hushed platitude, allowing Amalia’s inquiries to be answered by the sight of the animal alone. The noble beast dipped her head, and rounded her stare to the baker first, just the touch of mischief emboldening her features as they slid back to the Reaper in the most knowing candor and veracity. She shared his mind, after all. This is the one… she murmured and teased, and he shifted off to the side, while the mare went to bow her head before Amalia, a soothing, assuaging blessing glowing from the tip of her sapphire horn. The shield of Safrin she crooned, and the beast’s eyes narrowed, perplexed but only for a moment, and then the unicorn billowed a very soft breath in Amalia’s hair, watching the loosened tassels work their way upward, bemused. Satisfied for now, she advanced upon Jigano, diligent in her impending, healing properties, following with the same pattern, the same ritual, as she advanced, attempting to mend what had been broken, what had been gnarled, what had been gnashed out there in the Spire. The bard? she intonated - such impressive knowledge she clucked back and forth, and the Reaper fought not to roll his eyes. Zuriel raised her head and extended out her ivories to nip at the clothing along the man’s shoulder, tugging and pulling because she could – And then there was Kiada – looking only a little worse for wear with the apparent drunkenness, but the unicorn paid no mind. The assuaging process followed her there too, lowering her head to brush against the girl’s cheek, firebrand, the youth who dared to stand up to the warrior, especially when he was being ridiculous. Quite brave, earning the equine’s approval, a slow wink, before she returned to the center of the bakery, done with her business. “Show off,” Deimos mumbled. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate