to take arms against a sea of troubles

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He’d had difficulties in forging connections in prior lives because of his silence, of his stoic qualities, of the reticence forgoing and circumventing over all the sentiments layered, lacquered underneath. Deimos had expressed his camaraderie, his fellowship with his kingdom by action – protecting and defending them, their efforts, their capabilities, but when everything was said and done – it really hadn’t mattered. It was a chilling arena, vast summits with his tilted crown and the endless, unwinding abyss, savage intonations with his promises of predilection, with no one daring to come near. Here, he’d been accepted, tolerated, to an earnest extent, uncertain when or where he’d become worthy of those efforts, extending them in turn. But apparently, when it came to mutual warriors, with their nonchalant facades, all the unsaid things buried and burrowed their way into the cores of their existence too, and they were left just as burdened as before. He didn’t ask about her health because she was strong and enduring, capable and of another nature. He didn’t ask where she’d been because it hadn’t been his business, not a being to pry, nor a creature to stick his nose into places he didn’t belong. The Reaper had no idea that it would sting, that it would hurt, that it would linger in that stead. His silence hadn’t held any lacerating intentions – just normalcy, fire-forged friends who could breathe in the same expanse without offending one another in the interim. Her news, however, intrigued him. The cool composure loosened for a moment, and he wasn’t as rigid, falling back into meandering along the basement, keeping his hands busy with sweeping, with picking up after the last meeting. She’d had several busy, interwoven days – snagged at the Fae’s hands (why – why would she intrude?), then being handed over to Zariah, escaping from her too (which was all the more intriguing, because how many of them would have to evade her claws soon?). “How did you escape?” His voice rumbled on the state of his curiosity, on the intervals of a potential story. Then came her inquiry – an expectation, but he didn’t think the Spire would be included in the juncture. Two separate tales, one he could spare, and one he was required to tell. “The Spire was a bit of a disaster – we went in to free the tulhaimnar. It did not go well, including Safrin becoming weak and wounded.” He left out the part where some of them nearly died, how they’d all been broken and barely stitched back together, how naught they did seemed to be very effective. His voice took on a deeper lilt, gaze landing somewhere along the walls, before pinpointing back to Wessex. “The meeting was for ensuring we had a leader. You and Ronin were put forth as candidates.” Then he wondered how she would react to the pending results, if she would ask why Ronin had circled back to proffering himself into the position – when he’d stalked off before. The world changed in such rapid paces – and with her absence, it might have been too much. “We voted as a group. Ronin was selected, with Jigano and Amalia as his advisors.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace