[PQ] No admittance, except on party business

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Remi had likely chosen correctly in not hastening Deimos towards music or candles; though it was the first time the Reaper had ever been called creative in his life. He was quiet again, hushed, as the alchemist inclined his skull, invited private conversation, and for some reason the warrior expected measures of duplicity and speciousness, cloaks and daggers; the way his mind concocted, schemed, and machinated. However, his calculations aired on the side of errors, because instead of some ruse, some scandal, Remi held out his hands to produce two rings. In between, nestled in the stones, were flickers of constellations and galaxies, and he narrowed his eyes to study, examine, the finer bits of art – swallowing down some apprehensive distinction again when his task came to fruition. “I can,” he insisted, even though it felt like irreverence, like it wouldn’t be enough, but the fiend caught the band of colors and hues again, scrutinized quickly, then nodded his head and went back to where he’d been working. Amalia disappeared on a flutter, and he snorted at her tiptoeing, her billowing kiss, not enough time for him to return the gesture before she was gone. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, paying far more attention to detail and design than he had with the notice board sign. He was reminded, intertwining in old memories, of days spent beneath moons and open skies, of mountains rising into the heavens, of the Aurora Basin and all the hues sizzling against it. From those aspects, combined with the colors of Remi’s already created rings, he began to frame two boxes between his hands: both had similar design, with a darker landscape of shadows and rising twilight, ignited, glowing stars scattered in between – with the northern lights like brushstrokes across the brim. Ronin’s had streaks of blue, some like the ocean, some like speckles of rain. Remi’s had more garbs of gold and green, curls and coils like lion’s mane. Down the sides were the hallowed valleys of the horizon, with more and more fronds and plumes of the lights feathering their way along the threshold. By the time he’d finished, the baker had returned, so he sidled up alongside her, eyes lingering on the lanterns for a moment, the boxes tucked carefully, safely, in his hands, to show the final product. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace