we're all killers
He watched, immersed back into normalcy for the moment, standard routines of silent witness, a scholarly study, a master of hushed platitudes and precipices. Perhaps one day he’d be able to embark upon the same creating standards, capable of molding different elements together (fire, he thought of his father, the embers always in his hands, water, he thought of his mother, confident, calm, and composed, intricately weaving the liquid in her palms), to be better, to be mightier, to be more than he was now. His eyes riveted on the intricacies and developments, tilting his head from side to side when curiosity and inquiry fully invested their wares into his gaze; the blinded man’s ability to wield and position everything just so was fascinating. Then the charcoal was in place, a filtering system, hopefully to ward against the damned, menacing claws of the venom, the toxins, floating in the air. Then a glance was mustered his way, the orchestrations and compositions complete. “Perfect,” he uttered, the rapt smile back on his face; could’ve been considered boyish and devilish, an impish twist and turn of mischief from days scattered in yesteryear. “Thank you for doing all of this.”
He paused, uncertain about where to go from here. Their agreement upon Jigano’s role was cast, they already had three assembled for the impending doom, and Deimos would have to somehow wrangle Rory’s powers into the amulet settled in his pocket. “I will see about finding another,” he mused out loud; because if there was just one more powerful individual, raging and fighting and tearing apart the plants, they might have a better chance. They might come away victorious, instead of potentially broken, weary, and suffocated. “Is there anything more to be done?” He inquired, before the thought of the baker meandered its way back into his skull, and the devilry faded away from his lips. “I have to go tell Amalia.” It’d been replaced with dread, with apprehension, with obvious trepidation; thinking about digging his heels in and dragging his vessel there.
He paused, uncertain about where to go from here. Their agreement upon Jigano’s role was cast, they already had three assembled for the impending doom, and Deimos would have to somehow wrangle Rory’s powers into the amulet settled in his pocket. “I will see about finding another,” he mused out loud; because if there was just one more powerful individual, raging and fighting and tearing apart the plants, they might have a better chance. They might come away victorious, instead of potentially broken, weary, and suffocated. “Is there anything more to be done?” He inquired, before the thought of the baker meandered its way back into his skull, and the devilry faded away from his lips. “I have to go tell Amalia.” It’d been replaced with dread, with apprehension, with obvious trepidation; thinking about digging his heels in and dragging his vessel there.
DEIMOS
