Though the words are unspoken, Cera is in agreement. The sands of the Throat haunt his dreams, the call of gulls still turns his head hopefully towards the horizon only to be disappointed time and again. Especially in the clutch of winter, with snow he never saw unless he traveled beyond their home borders, he misses the heat of the desert. The nightly chill was brutal, but Cera longs for the scorch of sun across his shoulders, the way everything is awash in golden light. The nostalgia is a sharp blade that threatens the happiness he has a chance of grasping here. And while Deimos may be shocked that Cera - for all he had suffered at the hands of the Basin, the memories of blood and war that stain the name of the Reaper's land - does not hold a grudge, it had never really crossed his mind.
Their shared amusement only brightens Cera's face, though the shadows of bitterness still darken his verdant eyes. "Vast understatement," he laughs, recalling all the ways Midas had wounded and betrayed him over the years. While a small, childlike portion of him would always love the Gallant, it was a portion easily drowned out by the chorus of matured wisdom that denounced the man for all his constant flaws.
A flush draws across Cera's cheeks and down his neck, ducking his head in embarrassment as Deimos slyly confirms that he had been known. Perhaps a threat, or a boast of their talent, but to Cera it is a higher compliment than he ever expected from the Sword. "I'm more honored to have been worthy of such renown than intimidated by the knowledge you had," he laughs, a titter of flustered noise. "Everyone knows you had some of the best spies and thieves in the land." They had been Midas' downfall, after all. A plague upon the land that luckily had never targeted Cera, but one that still garnered his respect.
It's just as pleasing to cause a smile to brighten Deimos' stony features, and he practically skips along as they continue over their uneven path, helping keep the deer in position and push the cart over stubborn stones as needed. Even so he keeps an ear tuned to the man's deep vocals, humming softly in attentive response. All had known of the Reaper's magical talents, it's no surprise his strongest magic had made its way to this land. For a moment Cera misses his fire, the golden flames that had coated him in mimicry of Gaucho. Why had he not been given the choice? Why had this world decided that instead, he should be a shape shifter? He, the one who had been stalwart and consistent in his heart and soul? Cera didn't understand what they had seen in him to believe he would ever be so transient. It is an ache he can't linger on for long.
"I miss my magic," he confesses softly, if only to get the words out, to drain the poison from his thoughts. But he makes himself smile, as he always does. It is not a time for mourning. "I wish we had a say in our forms. I miss the sky. But to grow stronger over time is the way of life, regardless of the land's laws." It had been similar in Helovia after all, though that was usually due to people growing older and seeking out the Gods as their plans grew more specific.
Their shared amusement only brightens Cera's face, though the shadows of bitterness still darken his verdant eyes. "Vast understatement," he laughs, recalling all the ways Midas had wounded and betrayed him over the years. While a small, childlike portion of him would always love the Gallant, it was a portion easily drowned out by the chorus of matured wisdom that denounced the man for all his constant flaws.
A flush draws across Cera's cheeks and down his neck, ducking his head in embarrassment as Deimos slyly confirms that he had been known. Perhaps a threat, or a boast of their talent, but to Cera it is a higher compliment than he ever expected from the Sword. "I'm more honored to have been worthy of such renown than intimidated by the knowledge you had," he laughs, a titter of flustered noise. "Everyone knows you had some of the best spies and thieves in the land." They had been Midas' downfall, after all. A plague upon the land that luckily had never targeted Cera, but one that still garnered his respect.
It's just as pleasing to cause a smile to brighten Deimos' stony features, and he practically skips along as they continue over their uneven path, helping keep the deer in position and push the cart over stubborn stones as needed. Even so he keeps an ear tuned to the man's deep vocals, humming softly in attentive response. All had known of the Reaper's magical talents, it's no surprise his strongest magic had made its way to this land. For a moment Cera misses his fire, the golden flames that had coated him in mimicry of Gaucho. Why had he not been given the choice? Why had this world decided that instead, he should be a shape shifter? He, the one who had been stalwart and consistent in his heart and soul? Cera didn't understand what they had seen in him to believe he would ever be so transient. It is an ache he can't linger on for long.
"I miss my magic," he confesses softly, if only to get the words out, to drain the poison from his thoughts. But he makes himself smile, as he always does. It is not a time for mourning. "I wish we had a say in our forms. I miss the sky. But to grow stronger over time is the way of life, regardless of the land's laws." It had been similar in Helovia after all, though that was usually due to people growing older and seeking out the Gods as their plans grew more specific.
Cera
The worst in me could bring out the best in you
