who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos had never known kingdoms or lands full of contentment: there’d always been chaos, in one form or another: wars, famines, pestilences, rebellions, cold, brutal insurrections, thieves in the dead of night, ghosts from the slaughter. No world seemed immune from the wake of disaster and destruction – either human borne, molded, created, or simply a way of the earth revolving and turning. It was why they grabbed with greedy intervals and avaricious claws, striving to have those precious moments of repose, where treachery didn’t loom, where phantoms didn’t linger, where sanctuaries and sanctums didn’t seem so far away. It was difficult to fathom the last time any of them all seemed content had been amidst the spring, the turn of Fiat Lux, festivals after monsters, demons, and debacles.
And while he’d always been born, baptized, consecrated, and anointed in the heat, in the rush, in the irreverence of chaos, sometimes even he was fatigued and exhausted by its endless cycle.
“With more to come,” he nodded, a swift, measured thing, acknowledging the overbearing, overwhelming statures. “Sometimes you can only learn as you go. But let me know if you have any questions.” The Reaper, the Sword, usually had a multitude, streamlined curiosities when rushing into the unknown, an unrelenting persistence in survival clinging to his form. The other man was likely the same – portaled in from the unknown, timing a little more than dire.
The hunt, thereafter, was a short, curt, blunt thing – were it some other individual, something he detested, abhorred, or loathed, then he would have extended the predator instincts simply for unholy, irreverent entertainment. But the deer had its value, was a thing of the forest, meant to be honored in its sacrifice, ensured any and all parts would be put to good use.
He didn’t expect the praise though. His eyes slid back over to the other, no longer long-legged wolf, but man again – the beast accepted the compliment with half a smile, anything else would’ve seemed superior and smug. He knew weapons. He knew munitions. He knew the bow, the arrow, the slash of steel, the pommel and hilt of a sword. There were quite a few things chiseling along his ignorance, but quick deaths weren’t one of them (neither were slow, torturous, agonizing ones). “We can take it to my home.” He’d strung up enough carcasses along the eaves of his house, or the nearby trees, shrugging. It wasn’t terribly far, just along the Outskirts, at the end of roads and streets.
At the notion, he spread his hands apart, a gilded glow conforming between them, and then lowered his grasp so the item sinking into fruition had ample room – a cart, small and sturdy, wheeled, a place for the carcass to rest so it wouldn’t have to be carried over the distance, saving time and strength. He grabbed hold of the prey, and used a hunting knife to properly field dress the animal, cutting upwards along the hide, removing entrails along the way, and allowing heat to dissipate. It was diligent, smooth work, done time and time and time again, habitual, measured, and meticulous, retaining any organs either of them might want; ensuring it was ready to be transported.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
