we're all killers
“An explosion,” he monotoned, intrigued by the layers beneath the surprised phrasing. So Jigano hadn’t told him about all the threats lingering between stones, rubble, ruin, and the unknown. Was this another manipulative piece, brought on because the bard had required, needed, the alchemist’s enchantments? Was it a scheme, a precipice, the Loreseeker walked upon, a pretense of kindness when glory and triumph were to be had, snagged, and grasped? Was the Reaper making too far of a leap into the insinuations and implications, or had he experienced such individuals, such people, within the shackles and tethers of his life – and saw it here too, in the ivory entanglements of their monarch? Otherwise, why omit the truth? Why drag Remi to doom and gloom, completely unaware of what might lay in wait as the first interval of fires raced and raged? The beast didn’t like it. Deimos battered back and forth in twists and turns of honor, but didn’t readily adhere to it all the time – his instincts came from protection and safeguarding, ensuring those within his sights were shielded, protected, either by his knife, his predilections, or his upheaval. He’d known Jigano wouldn’t have yielded to the same regard, already slithering and crawling within the present, acting beholden and anointed, blessed as a sacrificial lamb, while they committed to their duties, while they strained and fatigued. And when their parts were fulfilled, when they were drained and exhausted, what would their King do then?
He could picture it – but he didn’t put the image into words. Not yet.
And to Ronin, another disastrous wake Deimos half wondered hadn’t been a mistake at all; a ploy, a ruse, a scheme, an avaricious tactic – then to crumble and grumble when the rest of the world caught him.
They’d had it together. They’d had it planned.
He sighed, fingers sliding along his glass, toying with it as he listened, depths of his stare sliding back to Remi at the skeptical wake, at the shake of his head. “The insects were a nuisance.” He shrugged; there’d just been so many of them, and by the time they were wounded, they’d aimed to puncture and devastate their way into lacerations, one more piercing juncture while they fought, while they battled, while they tried to save a being that didn’t want to be saved. “I used a significant amount of magic to ensure we stayed alive,” nodding in agreement, in that the air would’ve mauled them all to pieces, had strived, had tried, to break them apart. He’d been exhausted, fatigued, bone-tired and breathless, wondering if he was going to die in those chambers, his bones eaten away by scavengers and vitriol. “I doubt Jigano is capable of combatting gas. Or fire. Or explosions.” He rolled his eyes there, the alcohol taking away bits and pieces of reticence, of otherwise demonstrative composure. What had he done in that damned Spire? He’d been a snake, perhaps in more ways than one, and then meandered his way into the earth mound. Useless. Ineffectual. The words sputtered along his cranium, doused him in sedition all over again, and his Machiavellian mind wouldn’t take them back. But as Remi trailed off, the Reaper raised his head, the glass suddenly still in his hands. “We do not need him.”
He could picture it – but he didn’t put the image into words. Not yet.
And to Ronin, another disastrous wake Deimos half wondered hadn’t been a mistake at all; a ploy, a ruse, a scheme, an avaricious tactic – then to crumble and grumble when the rest of the world caught him.
They’d had it together. They’d had it planned.
He sighed, fingers sliding along his glass, toying with it as he listened, depths of his stare sliding back to Remi at the skeptical wake, at the shake of his head. “The insects were a nuisance.” He shrugged; there’d just been so many of them, and by the time they were wounded, they’d aimed to puncture and devastate their way into lacerations, one more piercing juncture while they fought, while they battled, while they tried to save a being that didn’t want to be saved. “I used a significant amount of magic to ensure we stayed alive,” nodding in agreement, in that the air would’ve mauled them all to pieces, had strived, had tried, to break them apart. He’d been exhausted, fatigued, bone-tired and breathless, wondering if he was going to die in those chambers, his bones eaten away by scavengers and vitriol. “I doubt Jigano is capable of combatting gas. Or fire. Or explosions.” He rolled his eyes there, the alcohol taking away bits and pieces of reticence, of otherwise demonstrative composure. What had he done in that damned Spire? He’d been a snake, perhaps in more ways than one, and then meandered his way into the earth mound. Useless. Ineffectual. The words sputtered along his cranium, doused him in sedition all over again, and his Machiavellian mind wouldn’t take them back. But as Remi trailed off, the Reaper raised his head, the glass suddenly still in his hands. “We do not need him.”
DEIMOS
