to take arms against a sea of troubles

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He leaned against the table now, arms folded across his chest, attention riveted on the escape, on Wessex’s ventures, because at some point, they needed to realize, needed to know, what they were truly up against. What would Zariah use? How would she try to counter them? What would they need to utilize to stand half a chance? While most of them didn’t have an Ascended’s abilities, it certainly felt like a massive advantage against the Merciless; agile, fast, no pain reception when that was how the monarch reigned, striving to create horrors and oblivion, threats and omens. The lightning manacles were an interesting touch – he wondered if they were created solely for the outlet of anguish, or if they harbored something more, ceasing incantations, invocations, enchantments from those who wore their miserable chains? Zariah also had life drain magic; similar to him, death and death and death, and he breathed sharply, not wanting to draw any other patterns between him and the beast on the throne. But then the story went on – lightning storms called and heralded (and how were they supposed to combat that when it was put into play on a battlefield?), a red-haired Fae woman (Arduinna – collector of favors and debts?). “That is quite an impressive evasion,” he stated, obvious, but managing to garner a smirk, a snicker, for her efforts and exploits, that she’d managed to get away at all, that the unrelenting foe they faced wasn’t truly omniscient. “Were the manacles meant to suppress magic?” He inclined his head, tilting it slightly, a study, an examination, pondering if these were to be avoided altogether or if they could maintain their own. “You likely met Arduinna – who seems to play her own games. She was the one who let our group into the Fae village to release those captured. We owe her a debt as well.” Their tones were nonchalant, but anyone who knew these infidels, these warriors, these fiends at all, would understand everything brooded and brewed underneath. They couldn’t fall apart in the face of another – reserved themselves for later, shaking in their shadows, reliving the horrors in the middle of the night. In the quiet, they didn’t dare unfold; too many bruises, too many scars, too many things lost in tempests and endeavors. But on the subject of Zariah, he could fill her in on the latest sagas. He wished the list weren’t so long or brutal. He wished there were other things they could do but sit and wait for the next ax to fall. He wished he could be something other than this rebellious figure, brooding and stalking and biding his time – insurrection at his core, bleeding into his voice. His eyes ghosted to the ceiling as his memory rotated, revolving, trying to piece everything together. “Zariah threatened Ronin’s daughter. I have a strong suspicion she has manipulated or influenced Rexanna in some way. She is hunting Jigano – and intended to disband the Loreseeker’s Guild. Amalia offered to take his place. In response, the Merciless has now threatened her with an arrest if Jigano is not found.” Was he forgetting something? He balled his hands into fists, an ire of frustration pummeling and fissuring, extending and radiating from his essence. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace