DEIMOS
They believe nothing can reach us
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
And pull us out of the boundless gloom
One of Deimos’ many abilities, not concerning efforts in mayhem, menace, and oblivion, was silence. He wasn’t one to spew out discourse at random intervals. He wasn’t one to fill the room with noise. He wasn’t one to even want to expel and exert constant diatribes. But it also enabled him to be a keeper of secrets, remarkable things contorted and coiled in the back of his mind, not revealed, not displayed, not released for the world to know. The shielding house, its construction, its location, and its traps were safe with him.
Remi was a welcome surprise, and he bestowed a quiet nod to the man, before adhering to Wessex’s tasks. Inveigling a trip wire was amusing to him, and he took the object with a dastardly wake, nodding his confirmation of the order to Wessex, turning his head before a visible smirk managed to finagle its way to his features. It’d been a long time since he’d set up a snare, figuratively or literally, and he strode along the outskirts of the house, setting up a perimeter some distance away.
It would have to be enough to alarm someone that another was coming, providing them an opportunity to get away, or defend themselves. His gaze snapped back and forth from the house to the grounds surrounding it, maneuvering slowly, carefully, quietly in the dark. All along his movements and motions, he ran the wire across ferns and brush, shrubs and trees, difficult to see unless one was truly looking for it. Once he’d finished it around the sanctum, he dragged the remnants of the line over to the main threshold again, plucking the remains into the cracked stones.
Remi was a welcome surprise, and he bestowed a quiet nod to the man, before adhering to Wessex’s tasks. Inveigling a trip wire was amusing to him, and he took the object with a dastardly wake, nodding his confirmation of the order to Wessex, turning his head before a visible smirk managed to finagle its way to his features. It’d been a long time since he’d set up a snare, figuratively or literally, and he strode along the outskirts of the house, setting up a perimeter some distance away.
It would have to be enough to alarm someone that another was coming, providing them an opportunity to get away, or defend themselves. His gaze snapped back and forth from the house to the grounds surrounding it, maneuvering slowly, carefully, quietly in the dark. All along his movements and motions, he ran the wire across ferns and brush, shrubs and trees, difficult to see unless one was truly looking for it. Once he’d finished it around the sanctum, he dragged the remnants of the line over to the main threshold again, plucking the remains into the cracked stones.
They're wrong
