we're all killers
A darker trace of humor implored and ghosted over the mountain’s normally nonchalant features; the drink bringing down reticent walls, a comfortable abyss coiling and contorting along his fortifications. He shrugged at the insinuation of the masks keeping everyone alive; his had, but only for so long – too many other things dragging them down, failure an almost inevitable outcome, poison seeping through their veins and lungs. But that would come, all the details, all the parallels, all the perils – he grabbed the bottle and refilled their glasses, anticipating an endless void.
At Remi’s burst of laughter, Deimos might’ve recoiled a little out of bewilderment and surprise, not entirely used to encouraging anyone to be amused in his presence (unless it was Amalia); then followed through on his own chuckles and discord. Not as much, not as booming, not as reverberating, but there, existing on the plain, because they needed something amidst this ongoing chaos.
He listened as the alchemist sighed and shrugged, consuming his glass of alcohol in swift measure again, absorbed by its harsh, devouring, swallowing sensations. He summed up the plans far swifter than Jigano had, but Deimos would admit to pressing more than a few buttons in that direction, the sizzling, scathing, smoldering distinctions pushing again at his ire, at his vexations. The Reaper contained his growls and hackles though, nodding, following through. “I attempted to make masks, and they were fine for a while, but they eventually broke down.” Which had been only some of the issues. “There was a horde of insects that attacked us. And Vai’s fire created an explosion when mixed with the gas.” Zuriel had gleaned away his burns, his smoldered flesh, the aches and pains, but the images were still there, plastered into his mind. But that was his main concern with Rory’s flames too - what if it happened again, and suddenly they were all out of commission? The scenarios were scathing and tempestuous, too many possibilities ranging from that hellhole.
At Remi’s inquiry, Deimos paused, considering, brow furrowed, staring at the wooden knots in the table. “Should a King put himself in danger?” He left it open in the air, a tilt to his skull, to his cranium; they were willingly putting themselves on the line to destroy hazardous things – they’d already done that once, aware of some pitfalls amidst the stones, but not conscious of the others lurking in the midst. “He promised to protect him. All of us.” The snort after gave away his notions on that regard.
At Remi’s burst of laughter, Deimos might’ve recoiled a little out of bewilderment and surprise, not entirely used to encouraging anyone to be amused in his presence (unless it was Amalia); then followed through on his own chuckles and discord. Not as much, not as booming, not as reverberating, but there, existing on the plain, because they needed something amidst this ongoing chaos.
He listened as the alchemist sighed and shrugged, consuming his glass of alcohol in swift measure again, absorbed by its harsh, devouring, swallowing sensations. He summed up the plans far swifter than Jigano had, but Deimos would admit to pressing more than a few buttons in that direction, the sizzling, scathing, smoldering distinctions pushing again at his ire, at his vexations. The Reaper contained his growls and hackles though, nodding, following through. “I attempted to make masks, and they were fine for a while, but they eventually broke down.” Which had been only some of the issues. “There was a horde of insects that attacked us. And Vai’s fire created an explosion when mixed with the gas.” Zuriel had gleaned away his burns, his smoldered flesh, the aches and pains, but the images were still there, plastered into his mind. But that was his main concern with Rory’s flames too - what if it happened again, and suddenly they were all out of commission? The scenarios were scathing and tempestuous, too many possibilities ranging from that hellhole.
At Remi’s inquiry, Deimos paused, considering, brow furrowed, staring at the wooden knots in the table. “Should a King put himself in danger?” He left it open in the air, a tilt to his skull, to his cranium; they were willingly putting themselves on the line to destroy hazardous things – they’d already done that once, aware of some pitfalls amidst the stones, but not conscious of the others lurking in the midst. “He promised to protect him. All of us.” The snort after gave away his notions on that regard.
DEIMOS
