gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Wandering, wandering, wandering, a custom he’d instilled within his movements and motions at a young age; childhood drifting turned to teenage, feral wildness, shifted to an adulthood where he could process, where he could meander, where he could chisel his way into something other than oblivion. The woods were calming, despite their haunted, poignant exterior, comfortable in their formidable grace, where the shadows crept, where the darkness hovered, where the copses and timber reminded him of ichor, of blood, of battlefield trenches and graves dug where his friends had fallen. But here, here, there were no sovereigns shouting their laws. There were no Loreseekers demanding, commanding, some other ridiculous, manipulative tactics. There were no bedlam traces rankling his hide, consuming his flesh. He breathed in the ether of the forest, and searched for something and nothing all at once. He hadn’t arrived empty-handed, swords and knives strapped to his belt, his bag of holding over his shoulder in case he stumbled upon an animal or plant worthy of hunting or plucking. It was a venture, a sojourn, but not useless or ineffectual. But the shimmer of movement, of light beckoning over to his left made an unearthly growl stir from his chest. He knew the presence, the essence, of a will-o-wisp; had nearly succumbed to their meandering, pandering whispers, to their duplicitous attentions (the cries of ghosts; the otherworldly shackles of something that couldn’t be mankind, taking memories and kindling them as whole, as true, as tangible strands). The beast swallowed, maneuvered away, carefully proceeding as if he hadn’t seen it at all. He understood its threatening, devious nature, the reeling exposition and exposure of such a creature – he just didn’t want part of it again, had no intention of being led astray and down into some snare, some trap, some torturous chamber. Except, then there was a savage scream. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   It would be a bold-faced lie to say Ashe wasn’t curious about the Greatwood, but her steps were infinitely wary as she traversed the unfamiliar woods of Mort’s Herald. Her sense of wonder was hampered, her shoulders tense, her eyes sharp. Her steps were silent, her hand running over the smooth, red bark of a tree as she considered a lantern just ahead…

   And the lantern was moving.

   Someone with any concept of self preservation might have turned around. Someone with even a single grain of sense would have seen a bobbing light through the trees of a haunted god-wood and turned the fuck around. Not Ashe, of course. Ashe was a fucking idiot.

   In a flash, it was the paws of a wolf that padded after the light, ears forward and golden eyes gleaming. She could hear it faintly -- unintelligible whispers that beckoned her forward. Her pelt prickled with unease, but she wanted to know. As she approached, the voices became… familiar.

   ’Ashe.’ She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes going wide. Kalt? But it couldn’t be him. There was still only that howling, empty wind between her soul and his, the bond consumed with agonizing silence. ’Ashe,’ he called again, and she swore a knife twisted in her chest. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t. Then there was a shrill giggle -- Theea. Her heart started to race in spite of herself, and she launched after the voices.

   The she-wolf let out a soft, whining bark as more of those lights appeared. What were they? Their voices hurt, the mockeries of her soul-bonded and their daughter. Shut UP! she snarled toward the lights, snapping her teeth at one that wisped by her jaws. Other voices joined them -- Northaveners and Northwinders she would never see again. And then ---

   ’Ashetta.’ Her blood ran cold, her paws skid and scrambled through the leaves to stop. The warped, dark voice hissed along her bones, twisted into her chest. The Master of Assassins. The bobbing lights moved in closer around her, dancing to and fro, and a savage growl rose in her throat. Her head swung around, searching for the source, for that dark mask that haunted her every dream, but there were only the lights dancing away, and she gave chase again. She couldn't see the sharp drop into a rocky ravine they were trying to direct her to.

   ’Very good, Ashetta, the warped voice of her Master said again, and she spun to snap her jaws down around another light. This time it hit, and she flinched back with a yelp as a blood curdling scream shattered through the air, sounding too familiar, like it could be anyone she loved.

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The scream haunted, scathed, scrawled its claws down the back of his spine; a poignant, irreverent chord sharpening its strain upon his skull, droning and wailing in his ears. He knew it was a trap, but it still held him there, diminished and snared, because the screams sounded like hundreds of others he’d heard before, outcries from the battlefield (save me, help me, will anyone-) and the way their voices had carried over fog and stone, over ichor and death, how they’d shorn away bits and pieces of his soul, of his heart, incapable of getting to them all. The screams sounded like Amalia. They sounded like Kiada. They sounded like Rexanna. They sounded like a merger of friends desperate for their lives, like the ring of hollowed hell in the Drop’s landslide, in the infernal reaches of daggers and cloaks, in the irreverent spikes of thorns and nettles. Before he knew it, he’d advanced, staring straight into the light, ignited by its siren essence, desperate to recoil but his pulse already segmented on its infernal glow: not real, not real, not real his mind rang for clarity in the midnight oils, on the shifting of earth beneath his feet, on the certainty of disaster pressing into the void. But what if it was? answered his cold, nefarious heart, too immersed in broken catalysts and behemoth chambers, eternally desperate to save those who meant something to him; a flaw, a virtue, the luminescence preyed upon. Deimos, it rang, it pervaded, it insisted. Help! He inhaled, sharp and curt and keen, the savage intervals bracing against his figure; undaunted, unperturbed, straight into his element of danger, disaster, and ruin. The monolith maneuvered, slowly, carefully, his eyes only on the sheen, the sheer, the twist and turn of beguiling light, the friends in its wake, in its clutches – He hadn’t expected another form to drift into its interval and orb too. It took a snapping of wolf jaws, the click of ivories and canines, the gathering globes and spheres glistening, bright and cheery, surrounding, enclosing, before he realized what was going on. His head shook and his gaze narrowed, watching, listening, as savage growls lit into the scenery; a yelp, a din within the throng. “Hey!” He yelled, trying to snag its attention, gods whatever for before something else happened – odd, it occurred to him, that an animal could be damned by these things too, led directly into the slaughter, flora and fauna alike. He kept those calculations and notions to himself, advancing upon more and more orbs, incensed, stoked, the animosity suddenly burning in his hands, yearning to sink and crawl and slither in their gallows, in their nooses, in their trenches. “Step back!” A warning to a wolf – predator amongst predators – but he didn’t care at the moment, infuriated with himself and with the situation. Would it even understand? The lure of death surged from his entity: cool, chilling, glacial, sent straight for the wisps, for the puffs of air, for the mischief and damnation persisting from their devilish heights; intending to drag them to hell, to drain them of their fire, of their existence. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   Too many voices, too many demons. How many of them were the cries of those that fell to her blades? How many were the ones she didn’t save, the people she loved that were murdered because of her? The whites of her eyes rimmed the blazing gold, ears pinned back as the lights closed in and in and in. One voice stood out above the rest, sending her pelt bristling with a feral snarl on her face. She thought her heart might explode with her Master’s voice curling into her bones. ’You’ve done well, Assassin in Blue.’

   A clear voice rang out over the cacophony of memories. It sounded unfamiliar. Real. She snapped her head around to see a man---gods, a very large man---fast approaching. A wild snarl ripped from her throat and she cowered back, hedged in by the lights and the newcomer. ’You’ve done very well.’ She wanted to howl her rage. She wanted to see the Master of Assassins and end him all over again.

   There were only the lights directing her back. Lights, and a man shouting for the wolf to get back.

   She had almost forgotten she was in Ludo’s Wood, almost forgot who and where she was entirely. She sensed the creeping, cold magic the man exuded, a magic she dimly recognized from someone a long time ago. She barked low and scrambled back, but seeing the man sparked some sense of reality in her as the lights quieted under the magical attack.

   Her eyes watched the mage before her with wary eyes, but her attention was brought to the nearest bobbing, infernal light. She snapped her jaws at it with a snarl, whipping her head around to close her jaws around the next.

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Closer and closer still, wolf jaws and the screams of a riotous din – louder, stronger, harsher, bounding against him even as he knew and understood their pretenses. Save me, save me scalded and mutilated, an inward crush, an innate measure searing against a blackened heart, the sinister, nefarious chambers becoming darker, glacial, walls upon walls as he stared right into the facets of lights and their hollowed hells. You’re too late whispered and crooned, a haunting, piercing slate, and he could recall the number of graves dug, the amount of times he rushed to a comrade’s side to hear their last breath, painstaking and torturous, surviving only to watch the rest fall. He shook his head, desperate to escape the melancholy void as he rushed onward, as his piercing eyes glimpsed over the canine. It barked, predator reverberations and warnings, but he was the same – carnivore inhibitions and predilections, just without the fur, the fangs; the bestial, barbaric qualities were all there, christened and anointed in the might, in the menace, in the mayhem. Then it scrambled back, either capable of understanding him or comprehending the essence of the magic unfolding from his figure; he would’ve raised his sword, his knife, or his hundreds of other weapons, but what good would it have done to combat the light? Light – wasn’t it supposed to be just and beneficent? “They are not real,” he ushered into the abyss, cold and stark, struggling to assure an animal of the deceptive measures, the duplicitous quandaries, the lengths in which this world had orchestrated, designed, and manipulated its tethers to assault and siege. It was different from brandished skirmishes and drawn daggers; but still vicious, still abhorrent, still anguishing. And why did it seem to collide with one of its own? Unless clawed in his mind, but he let it be for now. While the wolf snapped its jaws (and he wondered if that worked; if it swallowed down the bits of luminescence and ate away the bane, the baleful essences, or if it bellowed and ached from within then – slipped and slithered its way into lungs and bones), he witnessed some of the lights begin to dim, fade, no longer pressing in, no longer surrounding. He clenched his jaw, and hastened the magic again; the invocations, the sorcery, sprung back into the ether with a glacial quality, a supreme exultance at enmity and savagery, turning and distorting, contorting and unraveling, the wisps once more (if only to no longer hear the screams, the cries, the memories). master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   Vvoices began to quiet. Lights began to dim, and those that did not fail completely zipped away from the magic pressing in upon them. Ashe snarled at the few that remained, one ear on the very real person. Her jaws snapped down around another of the creatures, screams echoed, and she spun around to face the next and---

   There was only the man left. Large, imposing, a warrior born and bred in every inch of him. She remained crouched, very still, ears back and eyes locked on the man that helped her. Friend or foe? Even in this, she couldn't be sure. The wolf swallowed and licked her jaws, taking a slow step back.

   She should thank him. Or at least be in a better position to defend herself if he wasn't so friendly. She shifted in a flash, exposing her form as not but a very small woman with short black hair, and wild fire-blue eyes. She crouched in the dirt, rising slowly to stand, and even then he towered over her.

   "Thank you..." she said warily. She swallowed and glanced around at the trees before locking her eyes back on Deimos. "Do you know what those were?"

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame They drifted, dying, a demise, back into ether, back into stone, back into moss, back into fey raptures and reveries; the screams gone, but the echoes, the chasms, had yet to leave, a cluster of haunting notes that would rivet and lacerate his bones on quieter evenings. He exhaled, a long, wavering, withering sigh, the force of his incantations returning back to his figure, the familiar roll of his shoulders, the blistering wake of their vehemence building along his veins once more. Then there was only the wolf and him – the midnight oils, the twilight expanse, the wild, gaping unknown; his eyes maneuvered back to the predator, watching every move it made, in case he was suddenly the next target of the jaws, of the fangs, of the teeth, if it interpreted new threats amidst the old. He should’ve expected the shift: he’d witnessed enough, known enough, individuals capable of such feats; it had loomed in the back of his mind, a pressing possibility, let go under the circumstances of dwindling lights and swinging lanterns; infernal ghosts and gathered wraiths. It didn’t cease his eyes from widening slightly, sharply, before narrowing back – a woman appearing where the wolf had stood, small, petite, could’ve been much a fey or sprite herself. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it – didn’t have a name, didn’t have any other form of recognition. At her thank you, he tilted his head, segments of the stoic, nonchalant beast vanished, a conjuring of the curious warrior laden in the midst instead. “You are welcome,” he nodded and bobbed his head, accepted the acknowledgments, understood full well the power and precision of poignant, bestial, barbaric requiems. He didn’t ask her what she’d heard. “Will-o-wisps,” he responded; only lacking ignorance on the subject because he’d seen them before, because they’d scraped and blistered and tore their way through his expanse seasons ago. “They prey upon those in the wood. Seem to enjoy trickery.” Enablers of lies, tormentors out of mischief and mayhem. His gaze slunk back to hers, proffering introductions because he didn’t know what else to do in the murk. “I am Deimos.” Then he paused, not prying, not deluding, but ensuring. “You all right?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   As quickly as he arrived, the fierce warrior melted down into something that lacked aggression or hostility. She narrowed her eyes a moment keeping her hands loose at her sides as she regarded the man. He was certainly stronger than her, but we he faster? More ruthless? Cunning? Creative? What would he want from her if there was a sign of having the upper hand?

   Best not to find out. While being underestimated her whole life had been a key player in her infamy and how untouchable she'd been, it had taught her to never underestimate anyone else. He had helped her though, a wolf, a wild beast for all he knew. As with every new soul, she withheld her judgement. Kalt, Vai, Ronin, Remi --- the only ones she trusted beyond the shadow of a doubt. She wondered if there would ever be more than that, or if everyone she looked at would have the potential to betray her. Paranoia, it seemed, would be a tougher demon to tackle than others. It kept her alive this long.

   Deimos. She tucked the name away in her memory, burning it there with his face --- and a memorable face at that. The face of a warrior. Of a killer. She knew them when she saw them. Hadn't Kiada named him as friend? "Ashe," she answered, and as if reminded to, she took quick stock of herself. "I'm fine."

   Her fire blue eyes lifted to glance about at the trees, Ludo's Wood blanketed in soft silence now without the echoes of her ghosts assaulting her senses. "I read about them back home," she said on the Wil-O-Wisps. She frowned. "They were a lot fucking nicer in fairytales." She had read of many things in fantasy books back in Northwind and Northaven alike. So much of the things she dreamed about from those stories she devoured were here in this world. Dragons, unicorns, griffins, fae, even gods. None of it was anything like in the stories.

   Ashe looked back to Deimos, tilting her head up at him in an almost canine way. "What is it you're doing out here?" she asked boldly.

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos had learned not to underestimate anyone either; long ago, past mistakes and brutal convictions, death knells around a throat, ominous beacons and political, marginal lines cuffing him upside the head months and seasons later – cycles of indulgences and belligerence, abhorrence and scorn, that had landed him in more trials and tribulations than they were worth. Especially as a soldier – one could never assume their foe, their adversary, their enemy was weak; it was easier to presume their strength could rival above, a pinnacle, a paragon, and then machinate how to take them down. So he did not ponder over any feebleness or power of a wolf-girl, who stood small but like a predator, like a carnivore, like the rapacious and the deadly. In another time, in another place, in another venue, he would’ve scrutinized her for her abilities, pondered over what she could do for a kingdom, for a sovereignty; here, he was just one more shadow in the darkness, not aligned to regions, but to himself and those he cared for. Whether or not she was a threat would remain to be seen. While his eyes were piercing, hers were too, and he wondered if she came from ruins and from debacles, where the youth had to become far older, far wiser, far stronger before they were ready, if everything was hardened, if worlds corrupted and condemned, reaching across globes and seas, just as damned as the rest of them. His gaze didn’t leave hers, acknowledging her name with a nod, committing it to images, faces, and memories (Ashe; remnants of fire and the things it burned, left behind – an inferno in her wake), and that she was not wounded. He did manage to loosen the lightest of chuckles at her admission of fairy tales and how they’d been nicer then – everything easier when one was a child, listening to the beckoning hands of fables and myths. He’d enjoyed them for a time too, believed in the legends and prophecies, until actualities slapped him in the face. “Reality is often harsher,” he shrugged, the warrior merely tipping his head in her direction; she would likely know that anyway. When her feral look drifted back to him, pinpointed inquiries, he was reminded eerily of Kiada, and smothered another bout of laughter. Should he have answered truthfully? That he was avoiding the ongoing dramatics of everything within the Hollowed Grounds? It was a partial notation. His gaze segmented back on the nocturnal eaves and the splendor of the quiet, the brandished shadows, the lingering boughs. “Exploring. I had not been this way before.” Hunting. Evading blistering talks in basements. Forgoing botched diplomacies and failed rebellions. The puncturing stare riveted to her only thereafter the silence crept in again. “And you?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   Deimos laughed just barely, a sound of distant thunder, and she found herself quirking a brow in reply, fighting the half smile pulling at her lips. It had become too easy to laugh freely with strangers lately. Thinking back on her discussion with a certain loreseeker, it occurred to her to wonder if that was actually a bad thing or not. Was it? Every instinct roared that it was. Idiocy, letting her guard down.

   She did huff and nod in agreement, at least. ”Reality’s a bitch,” she echoed, her tone dry. She took a deep breath, working on relaxing the hostility in her stance, to match the careful curiosity she felt from the man. She glanced him over, tilting her head as she assessed and weighed and considered.

   Exploring. It seemed an easy explanation, didn’t it? That’s what she was doing, to some effect. She hardly knew the Greatwood, and Ludo’s wood had been the first place she’d been drawn to. It wasn’t as if she had anything else she could do, helpless to her family going missing, helpless to her brother getting sick, helpless to the Launcelyn takeover.

   Ashe crossed her arms as the question was turned back on her, biting the inside of her lip with thought. ”Exploring too, I guess,” she said with a half shrug, but there was an edge of bitterness to her tone. ”I needed something to do.” She glanced to the trees, solemn and quiet. ”You’ve faced those things before? What else is out here?”

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Drawn guards and walls were familiar too; the arches strong and sturdy, built up and up, a blistering, barbaric ascension when days drifted into more than just war; when the anguish and melancholy scraped and slashed a little too close, a little too near, when he was bombarded, when he had to reform into stone once more. Persistence enabled constant fortitude, a persevering venture to scrape away those who thought to crawl into his sanction – and then, before he realized it, they’d meandered their way in with acceptance and tolerance, not pushing, not prying, lingering outside thresholds or beyond doors, waiting for them to open, waiting for him. It was a differing expanse and experience, gone from the seasons and cycles spent digging himself deeper and deeper into isolated fathoms, carving out a niche, a space, for himself at the top of mountains, away, away, away, from everyone and everything. Here, others didn’t give in, didn’t give up; perhaps it made him an idiot too – but far less lonely, far less desolate, far less rubble and ruin. The hint of a smirk settled along his mouth at her reverberations, aptly put in its blunt place, arching his brow only slightly as he witnessed her strive to relax. Perhaps he didn’t pose a threat; the calm, nonchalant demeanor sliding back into position after layers and lacquer of death and damnation, or she had presumed his cruelty and maliciousness wasn’t aimed at her presence. He could feel her studying, scrutinizing, and he’d done the same – the way predators weighed and calculated another, perceiving and meticulously placing details amidst the foundations, pondering where the bestial, feral chains ended, where the swords, fangs, and talons began again. The beast permitted it, expected it, lifted his head only slightly higher, piercing gaze sliding over raised branches and boughs in the hollow. They were strikingly similar in these particular factions then – exploring, requiring movement and freedom from whatever burdened them. He didn’t say as much; kept everything tucked and furtive, cloak and daggers, shrouds and blades, uncertain of where she’d been, what she’d seen, what she’d heard; the dramatics of the past evenings a ridiculous conflagration. “I did,” he answered at first, facing the will-o-wisps, the haunting siren calls poignant, summoning ghosts and dust. “It depends on where you go in the Greatwood.” The warrior’s eyes narrowed slightly, memories coiling back over images of flora and fauna amidst the groves, the copses, the glistening unknown. “We saw an Undine in the Crimson Cataract, tainted with the blight. It was saved when we strived to heal it. There were Naiads along the Sea of Branches.” He paused, uncertain how far or how much she yearned to hear, how much she’d want to explore and wander amongst for herself. “Rivers intertwine throughout several lands. Then there is the Fae Village,” and here his gaze settled back upon her, some portions of his stare churning in mischief, in curiosity, and warning. "If they catch you there, they will sacrifice you to the tulmhainar.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   Ashe listened with more curiosity than she cared to admit. An Undine.. what even was that? That it had been blighted was disheartening... but saved? And she had heard of niads, certainly, read about them in the same way she read of wil-o-the-wisps. Were they cruel too, mischievous things that would lead her astray and drive her mad?

   Then the look from Deimos turned into something different, a glimmer of play behind the clear warning as he spoke of the Fae. Ashe bristled internally, her gut twisting. "Sacrifice?" she repeated. Her jaw set, her eyes narrowing as she extended her senses, waiting to catch an unfamiliar scent, as if they would descend upon her then and there. "They could try."

   The wolf girl half frowned, looking out and stepping toward the trees. She glanced back at Deimos, as if to ensure her newest companion was following with her silent invitation. Curious about him, and grateful for his help. "I spent some time with.. a friend of yours, I think. Kiada." Her mouth quirked into a smirk, their eventful day together impossible not to smile about. "She said the Fae had a.. pit." She hated saying it, the very implication sending goosebumps across her skin. She remembered being in a different pit, worlds away, where parts of her had died and never come back. "Are they liberal with it?"

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He understood and comprehended the lacquer, the layers, between they could try, daring provocations and instigations he often deigned to implore upon the world. Do your worst he’d howled and roared and murmured into moonlight fringes and daybreak madness; because then he could commit to his, and catastrophe, ruin, and enmity would follow on his deadly oeuvres and opuses. Sacrifice and all its implications, however, at least deigned upon the Fae, were a different nature. When he’d received the same information, on the fringes of knowing Amalia and Kiada had been in their grasp, he’d been enraged, furious, a maneuvering blade intending to slash his way through the woods. It’d been part of the Fae’s artifices and pretenses – there’d been no cutting, no blood-letting, no gore of their intended victims, and despite any images he’d managed to conjure on their sojourn into the midst, liberation and rescue at the forefront of his mind, the reality might’ve been an even stranger process. “They hold a different sort of ritual. Instead of offering bodies or blood, the Fae have their prisoners give memories.” Did it help the ancient turtle grow in strength? Did it matter if they were good or bad, haunting or indifferent, bestial, strange, or relentless? He never truly intended to find out – more content to remain out of their clutches, along the intertwining blades. The warrior followed, a blackguard in his precise steps and motions, movements of foretold, promised sedition if required – not expecting the Harpy’s name to suddenly come up. His head snapped, a vicious ascent for a moment, brow arched as she started to explain the reasons behind the mention. He didn’t ask about the following smirk – left that up to curiosity. “They do.” He nodded in his agreement, having seen it first-hand, an eyewitness to the depths, fetching and fishing another out of it when they’d entered the village and no one had stopped them from intruding. “I only helped someone get out of it. But from what I hear, it is their favored way of imprisonment.” Deimos didn’t question if she knew what it was like to be held against her will – he knew the notions of locks, of chains, of tethers, of bindings, of being taken and fighting, fighting, fighting a losing battle. “So we remain careful.” The piercing edges of his stare rounded back to her, an impish glance tossed her way when he drew beside her, long limbs and strides maneuvering him near wolves and their fangs. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

ASHE

does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?

   Memories... she shuddered at the thought, and she wasn't entirely sure what she thought of it. Did it kill the prisoners, or simply make them forget? She didn't have the courage to ask. There were memories she would be glad to be rid of, so many things that would never not haunt her, not make it a struggle to let herself smile. Would it be a blessing for them to be gone?

   She looked up t Deimos when he was suddenly at her side, and she narrowed her eyes with a likewise impish smile, sharp canines flashing briefly before she looked ahead again. "Always careful," she replied, knowing how much of a lie that was. She was paranoid, to be sure, but careful? She wouldn't have as many scars as she did if she was the careful sort.

   Ashe brushed her hand over a tree as she passed it, eyes scanning their surroundings. "You're not from here, right? You're an Outlander too," she observed. There was something about him that said other, that he knew of things this world had never seen before. "Was your world anything like this one? Wil-o-the-wisps, gods, unicorn, Fae.."

I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.