we're all killers
The only portal Deimos had ever gone through was to here from Isilme; the other life had been adrift in a series of endless journeys until he’d reached Helovia. In both, he’d come across terrain and loam by foot – the intervals, the swift changes, usually pressed and shackled by a battlefield, by drumbeats, by fog lifting, exposing adversaries and enemies. It was why he enjoyed wandering so much now, curious to explore, fascinated by different levels and lacquer, intoxicated by nuances and ghosts of the past; why he might’ve been lured so readily into the realm of quick access. It might didn’t weigh as heavily as a promise, or a possibility of another Jigano lie, so he let it rest, didn’t stay and dwindle in it for long.
As for other powerful magic users – Edrei and Zariah were likely out on this expedition. He withheld the snort this time, the roll of his eyes, a certain layer of fatigue weighing on his shoulders, on his brawn, on his might again; but his mind working, machinating, deciphering the measures in which they had to go.
The alchemist seemed inspired though – and he drifted off, Deimos watching, waiting, patient as he was apt to explain items, amulets, he’d made for the Merciless. Stored magic; a wisp of time in Helovia, where they’d stored, where they’d harbored, where they’d harpooned using the same devices – he was irked he hadn’t even thought of it until now. There’d been other ways too, but it didn’t seem important now (but left for future fodder and notations). “And we simply ask them for their magic…it seems much safer.” He paused, because he knew they already asked so much of the alchemist, and though he seemed willing, it had to be a burden. Deimos wasn’t as talented in these angles and directions, but he could at least try. “What do you need me to do?” Because he wanted to help.
As for other powerful magic users – Edrei and Zariah were likely out on this expedition. He withheld the snort this time, the roll of his eyes, a certain layer of fatigue weighing on his shoulders, on his brawn, on his might again; but his mind working, machinating, deciphering the measures in which they had to go.
The alchemist seemed inspired though – and he drifted off, Deimos watching, waiting, patient as he was apt to explain items, amulets, he’d made for the Merciless. Stored magic; a wisp of time in Helovia, where they’d stored, where they’d harbored, where they’d harpooned using the same devices – he was irked he hadn’t even thought of it until now. There’d been other ways too, but it didn’t seem important now (but left for future fodder and notations). “And we simply ask them for their magic…it seems much safer.” He paused, because he knew they already asked so much of the alchemist, and though he seemed willing, it had to be a burden. Deimos wasn’t as talented in these angles and directions, but he could at least try. “What do you need me to do?” Because he wanted to help.
DEIMOS
