we're all killers
Up until these fleeting moments – it had been the last time they’d had the Reaper in their clutches, in their grasp, because by then he’d finally begun to understand the game. Everyone was at risk, from the youngest to the oldest, from the smallest to the largest, available targets, where there were weaknesses, where there were flaws, where there were pieces another kingdom could latch onto, tear apart, skin and bone. So he and the others had begun their disastrous campaigns of thwarting, of antagonizing, of coming unraveled and defiant, of ensuring they weren’t the only ones undone – vicious and noxious, brutal and terrible, a defining catalyst in his life. Be mightier. Be braver. Be stronger. Be treacherous. Be conniving. Take them apart before they could do the same to him, to any of his people. It’d been one of the many unsaid promises and vows clutched in his chest, expressed only in savage swings, in the lacerating exchanges, in the vehement tactics unhinged from his deadly, nefarious soul. Predilections had been sworn, vengeance was a conviction, and it was how he’d always lived; persistence, endurance, fortitude, and menace.
Rexanna’s story seemed one of chance, one of opportunities, grabbing hold of what she could in a terrible situation: similar to anything else she’d ever committed herself too. It was a complex pattern, a ritual, a line in her schisms, in her pathways: the same now, thwarting Zariah and any other machinations upon her by finding another option available. Where Deimos would have been a barbarous, ruthless machine in the face of impending dangers, Rexanna chose to outwit – and perhaps that was why they’d always worked well together, opposing sides of coins but capable of melding, of molding, intervals and plans together. Saved once by cannon-fire, then chance, slipping into portals-
and right back to his infernal existence.
Had he ever told her how grateful he was for her?
He laughed a little, a light chuckle brought on by the alcohol and memories not spattered in blood. “You have always prevailed,” and he rose his glass again, another toast to parting fools and blades.
The warrior watched her reaction about the children, because it had been a grueling, exhausting stand against constant bombardment – fatigue settling in after attack after attack, onslaught after onslaught, desperation crawling into their bones and marrow between every volley. She implored him to continue, and there was another incitement in the words, in the upcoming notions and experiences. “Both the Edge and Throat were involved in the abduction attempts. Despite our best efforts, they ended up with two.” His eyes narrowed, the only sign of frustration, as he began maneuvering pieces again. “Our next plan was to invade both of them.” To let the world know we were done. He took hold of the Foothills token and altered it into the mountainous region, so there were two, one set to conquer glass and cliffs, the other intending to bombard draconic roots. It must’ve sounded foolish, to split their numbers apart – but something they’d risked for the sake of their sovereignty, for the juveniles lost and scattered. “We required a monarch to lead each charge.” His finger tapped on the Basin marker before the roaring waters. “Illynx was made Queen and went to the Edge,” and then he roamed to the other guarding the crimson monolith. “Psyche and I went to the Throat.”
Rexanna’s story seemed one of chance, one of opportunities, grabbing hold of what she could in a terrible situation: similar to anything else she’d ever committed herself too. It was a complex pattern, a ritual, a line in her schisms, in her pathways: the same now, thwarting Zariah and any other machinations upon her by finding another option available. Where Deimos would have been a barbarous, ruthless machine in the face of impending dangers, Rexanna chose to outwit – and perhaps that was why they’d always worked well together, opposing sides of coins but capable of melding, of molding, intervals and plans together. Saved once by cannon-fire, then chance, slipping into portals-
and right back to his infernal existence.
Had he ever told her how grateful he was for her?
He laughed a little, a light chuckle brought on by the alcohol and memories not spattered in blood. “You have always prevailed,” and he rose his glass again, another toast to parting fools and blades.
The warrior watched her reaction about the children, because it had been a grueling, exhausting stand against constant bombardment – fatigue settling in after attack after attack, onslaught after onslaught, desperation crawling into their bones and marrow between every volley. She implored him to continue, and there was another incitement in the words, in the upcoming notions and experiences. “Both the Edge and Throat were involved in the abduction attempts. Despite our best efforts, they ended up with two.” His eyes narrowed, the only sign of frustration, as he began maneuvering pieces again. “Our next plan was to invade both of them.” To let the world know we were done. He took hold of the Foothills token and altered it into the mountainous region, so there were two, one set to conquer glass and cliffs, the other intending to bombard draconic roots. It must’ve sounded foolish, to split their numbers apart – but something they’d risked for the sake of their sovereignty, for the juveniles lost and scattered. “We required a monarch to lead each charge.” His finger tapped on the Basin marker before the roaring waters. “Illynx was made Queen and went to the Edge,” and then he roamed to the other guarding the crimson monolith. “Psyche and I went to the Throat.”
DEIMOS
