we're all killers
Was he close with Rory? Close wasn’t a designation Deimos delved within often: though far more so here than anywhere else; more friends, more allies, more beloved things and individuals. “Reasonably,” he ascertained, a shrug following on the nettled note. At least, Rory had been fine enough with assisting in building tunnels, well before the Reaper and Jigano traded conspiracies, then raised their hackles at one another. How did one even approach someone else to ask for their powers? The suggestion of Amalia had merit – he’d save it for later when he wandered to the bakery next (sooner rather than later; he doubted she’d enjoy hearing secondhand news that he’d ventured down into the Spire again without notifying her; something else to dread in the back of his mind). “I will try,” the beast proffered instead. And if Rory said no, they’d have to think of something, or someone, else.
Then the mountain watched as the alchemist dove into his enchantments, a shape emerging, almost like a rock, chained, tethered, tied together – a vivid, poised reminder of all those days in Helovia, watching the amulets break apart, fizzle, or sizzle, the deadly incantations of his own stored for later, granted and given out to those who required them, the Reaper reborn and there when they required him. The hues had always been Stygian and nefarious – a representation of his blackened, savage heart and the enmity pulsing through it. Not now though: this appearance was like moons and stars, and he took the offering in his hands, eyes glancing over it, before placing it in a pocket, nodding at the instructions.
“Ah, the gas masks,” he recalled and remembered, the whole reason he’d even arrived. Glancing around, he found a spare piece of paper and charcoal, using it to sweep sketches along the threshold, until they’d conformed to his original design. “I think the main issue was the charcoal. I likely did not have the necessary power to wield it correctly.” His brows furrowed, fingers tapping over where the elemental components had been.
Then the mountain watched as the alchemist dove into his enchantments, a shape emerging, almost like a rock, chained, tethered, tied together – a vivid, poised reminder of all those days in Helovia, watching the amulets break apart, fizzle, or sizzle, the deadly incantations of his own stored for later, granted and given out to those who required them, the Reaper reborn and there when they required him. The hues had always been Stygian and nefarious – a representation of his blackened, savage heart and the enmity pulsing through it. Not now though: this appearance was like moons and stars, and he took the offering in his hands, eyes glancing over it, before placing it in a pocket, nodding at the instructions.
“Ah, the gas masks,” he recalled and remembered, the whole reason he’d even arrived. Glancing around, he found a spare piece of paper and charcoal, using it to sweep sketches along the threshold, until they’d conformed to his original design. “I think the main issue was the charcoal. I likely did not have the necessary power to wield it correctly.” His brows furrowed, fingers tapping over where the elemental components had been.
DEIMOS
