gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth
for Ashetta
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Online
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Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#15
DEIMOS
And in your darkest hour,
I hold secrets flame
Deimos had more than enough memories to give to anyone: a multitude of them unhappy, discontented, haunting things, more poignancy and anguish than any sublime, happy measures. They’d steadily begun to restore themselves, but then others took shape: new, fresh horrors aligned against sepulchers and catacombs, dreams that wilted, decayed. They’d likely poison anyone who dared to ingest them, so they stayed within his sanction, detrimental only when he allowed them to surface against his mind, only when they lingered for too long in one place – a rush of screams, a bellow of cries, too many final breaths extinguished in his ears.

Devilish contortions were returned, and he was eerily reminded of Kiada again – firebrand children with their carnivorous wiles, and how he only openly encouraged the disasters and mayhem because it was all he knew too – implored them to go after ambitions with gnashing teeth and grasping hands. He’d learned to be meticulous and methodical, but sometimes it didn’t matter; not when family and friends were threatened, not when destruction and ruin were imminent, not when the world threatened to pluck and take and snag things from him again. Then, he wasn’t careful at all; ruthless, heedless, an irreverent rapture of warrior ministrations and rapacious, seething torrents: a flame beneath the cold.

At her predilections and predictions, he chuckled; his mannerisms, his knowledge, speaking of other regions (which meant – she must’ve been from elsewhere too – the first measure she’d stoked within). He’d given himself away, but the Naturals all knew he wasn’t one of them – had made it clear early on, howling into the void as barriers toppled. “Yes. I come from other worlds.” Plural, for he’d been born and raised in Isilme (twice; on the bastion of reincarnation and resurrections), then honed his harpooning craft in Helovia, settled upon rime and mountains and the snow before perishing. “Similar, in a way. We had magic, gods, and unicorns. No Fae from what I can recall,” he tilted his head, arching his brow. Perhaps some could’ve been like sprites and fey, whimsical, mercurial, but he’d never been one for stupid games and tricks, snares catching on his limbs. His deceptions had been political or war-framed in nature, purposeful, meaningful, intending success for his kingdom and no one else’s. “Some kitsunes instead.” A wry grin settled on his smile, as if he were one himself (not at all; but had seen enough of their tails and incantations to understand their capabilities, their misdeeds). The Sword’s inquiry followed, curiosity forever binding him. “Where are you from?”
master of nothing place;
of recoil and grace
Messenger

Age: 28 | Height: 5'0" | Race: Attuned x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 7 (lvl 3 Attuned) - Strg: 10 - Dext: 27 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 14 - Int:
PERCY - Mythical - Unicorn (Superspeed) SOOT - Regular - Wine Spider
Played by: Jaecarys Offline
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Posts: 1,248 | Total: 1,553
MP: 150
#16
ASHE
does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?
   Ashe noted the plural, nodding her head. Her history was plural in worlds as well, first from Northwind, then onto Northaven. It often was lumped into one, as she discovered from talking to other Naturals. They all knew of the Northwinders, the wave of so many that had appeared at that spire. Most of them were dead now.

   The thought was almost unsettling, and she rolled her shoulders as if to chase it away. She focused on what Deimos told her, vaguely describing what could be found where he was from. Kitsune was a distantly familiar term, perhaps something she had read about, but she knew little of them. She quirked her brow up at his smile about them, and she got the impression that she might be grateful that she had never met one.

   His question turned on her, and she looked ahead of them once more, stepping nimbly from one red root to another. "I'm a Northwinder," she told him. "Like Ronin and Remi." Like the Launcelyns, but that went unspoken. There were others too, but at least her claimed brothers were well known, and she was proud to love them. "When we were sent to Northaven, we encountered... strange things. A great stone beast, a cat of some sort so big that it the spire would have been a thorn in its paw." Her left hand rose with a wry smile on her face, drawing attention to the prosthetic pinky finger Remi had made for her. "Lost nothing but a finger to it."

   She dropped her hand back down, looking ahead once more. She had been sure she would die that die. Absolutely sure of it, and while she had been crushed and mangled, it was only her finger that couldn't be saved. "We faced other things too. Shadow monsters and other beasts in the jungle, but didn't know anything about them. We had magic in Northwind, plenty of magic, but nothing like here." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and she wondered why it came so easily, talking to this stranger, this warrior. Could she take him if he decided she was a threat? Surely she could. "Would you ever go back to your home world?"
I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Online
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#17
DEIMOS
And in your darkest hour,
I hold secrets flame
For his part, he was rapt and riveted to hear of other worlds, portals opened and left behind, similarities and distinctions between sovereigns and the next. It was a scholarly habit, to listen, to blend his curiosity into connections and distinctions, to remember in case they were ever required, a necessity when dealing with surrounding people and forces. To hear Ronin and Remi’s land: Northwind, was intriguing, he’d never heard it mentioned before (but hadn’t asked either; not a beast entirely driven to pry – only when the notions and inquiries sunk well and deep, a tongue forced to question and spout). Then Northraven, and an encountering of other things: stone beasts (like the golems?), massive cats (large enough to devour the Spire; which he almost wished he could’ve seen – a version of monoliths far greater than anything except his blessed mountains). His eyes swung over to her pinky, contorted and coiled with a prosthetic, brows arching for a moment as if he were impressed. “How did you combat it?” How did she only lose a finger? He matched the wry smile, a lapse of mischief and warrior manifestations, always yearning to hear of monsters and how they were slain; legends absorbed in blows and bellows.

Shadow monsters and beasts; they’d had their own set of mayhem, pestilence not unlike the blight, forced to leave their homes for refuge in caves, or gods forcing mortals to murder on their behalf. Most of the time their chaos had been orchestrated by themselves – too greedy, too condemning, too vicious, too raptured and irreverent in their own beliefs and systems – peace ultimately restored before his death, but long since before it’d been too little, too late. It was bizarre to think of a time there hadn’t been acrimony and hostility, a seething, contemptuous slate bordering on their skin, on their flesh, on their bones. “We had magic too,” he finally answered, the Cheshire smile lost along his train of thoughts, mouth drawn back into its flattened lines and nonchalant demeanor; a mask, a pretense, when the scorching seams seemed to settle back on his spine. “It was almost expected to have something.” And a massive variety – everything from healing, fire, water, earth, wind, electricity, to darkness, the pooling, pouring essence crawling in his veins. To have creation now aligned to his heart was bizarre, and seemingly against the grain – a new visage, a new chapter, a new arc to a story he thought he’d been within before.

The Sword caught her glancing at him, did the same in return, brow arching again until her question slipped out. The craving for peaks and summits, for prominences and palisades that stretched all the way to the auroras hurt and churned, but it wouldn’t matter in the end. “There is nothing to return to,” he uttered instead, piercing gaze sliding back over the woods, glad he had perished long before he’d had to ever bear witness to shadows destroying one of the things he craved the most.
master of nothing place;
of recoil and grace
Messenger

Age: 28 | Height: 5'0" | Race: Attuned x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 7 (lvl 3 Attuned) - Strg: 10 - Dext: 27 - Endr: 19 - Luck: 14 - Int:
PERCY - Mythical - Unicorn (Superspeed) SOOT - Regular - Wine Spider
Played by: Jaecarys Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,248 | Total: 1,553
MP: 150
#18
ASHE
does the wolf apologize when it stands on top? should the lion say grace when it takes its mark?
   She glanced up at him with a half frown of understanding. "I'm not sure Northaven is still there or not," she offered in turn. "And Northwind was ravaged by war." She tried not to think about that. The country that had been her home. The great mountains to the east she had been born in, the sprawling capital she had been broken and remade in, the valleys and plains and forests and cities... she didn't realize how much she hoped it was still there, even if she would never return.

   She huffed and stepped nimbly from rock to root to fallen branch, until she stepped up upon a stone that brought her almost to eye level with Deimos. "The stone cat was a bitch to fight," she said, happy to switch the topic back to the beast that stole so many lives. Strange how horrors that once made her heart race and her breath catch held not even an ember to the infernos she had suffered since then. "We had these walls around Northaven, surrounding us on all sides. Keeping us in, keeping the jungle out. Impossibly tall, and this thing was taller. Headbutted it's way right through them and buried half our Guard in rubble. The rest of the settlement was magically trapped in town somehow and.. well, I think there were only eight of us left to fight it."

   She glanced up at Deimos as she continued on, hopping down from her perch to the next root, feet never touching the ground. "It was stubbornness and luck that won in the end, I think. We lost one fighter, a civilian baker. I don't know what she was thinking, fighting." She shook her head. She had never met Harlow personally, but everyone knew of everyone there, the messenger of Northaven especially. "I focused my firepower on one of its legs, along with a couple others who had magic. Some were crazy enough to climb it as it headed for town. Eventually we downed it, and with a final blast-" She held up her hand, a bright, brilliant blue spark of lightning snapping around her fingers before vanishing. "-its head was taken from its body. A few of us were crushed in its fall. I was lucky to only to lose a finger."

   Ashe looked up at Deimos, finding it easy to talk to him. She was meeting more and more like minded warriors and fighters of late, people she understood, people that knew what it was like not to remember a life without battles and pain and hardship. Not like Northaven, where she had felt like the dirt on people's shoes for not being able to live like they did. "Did you ever face monsters like that? Or just other people?" For there was no question in her mind he had faced people as surely as she had.
I do what I need to, what I have to, to survive. Closer than your friend, I can be your enemy.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Online
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#19
DEIMOS
And in your darkest hour,
I hold secrets flame
Nations and kingdoms, sovereigns and countries, taken apart and destroyed by war – his, as far as he’d been told, had merely been demolished by a false god, taking them all in, and then circumventing the plot with absolute devastation. Had he lived up until that point, there was no certainty he would’ve been able to survive and persist beyond that seemingly horrific day – as so many had not, their graves and catacombs lining a sanction no one could ever touch upon again. His mountains gone too, every portion of precious, beloved ice, every favored peak, every delicate hot spring, every damned, doomed contortion of rusted monoliths. The beast thought about it in those waking moments of disbelief and nightmarish quandaries, still pondering over the what ifs and may have beens; but knowing full well that he alone wouldn’t have been able to combat its disaster – just one more fool meant to perish.

He continued to walk while she bounded along rocks, roots, and sunken boughs, thinking naught of her eye-level candor, her personality large enough to walk amongst the giants too. The warrior remained on his steady path, brushing aside a few lingering sticks and gnarled limbs when necessary, but there all the same, stalwart and resolute, a modicum and entity of stones, boulders, and rock; rubble sometimes immobile, rooted into its declared sanctions. His silence meant he was listening, imagining cats made of precipices, taller than fortresses and bulwarks, a strong skull smashing and bounding its way into what was believed to be protected – a small number left to engage.

The beast didn’t give himself away on the strangled notion of the only one defeated: civilian baker, a brief narrowing of his eyes that ensured a conviction, a promise, a vow in his bones. Not Amalia, he reasoned with himself, certain that he and a number of others would ascertain her continued prowess and might. His thoughts lingered back into the story though, firepower and climbing, blasts – the segment of blue lightning enlightening his gaze, and he was reminded of those who’d had similar, scalding menace (Ampere – legendary, crackling endowments thrust into the sky, waging war). “Impressive,” he unleashed a small grin, a truth, alacrity in his form – he’d always be amazed by the might of others.

When the inquiry rounded back to him, his stare fissured back to trees and trunks, back to canopies and underbrush. “There were always people to fight. Wars to wage. Blood to spill.” Those who wanted to steal from his kingdom, from his inhabitants, from his citizens. Those who wanted to take what was theirs – children, thieves, healers, tending to instigated fury and might, always aware the Basin would come for them, but too stupid to stop themselves. Those who had scores to settle – hundreds upon hundreds of vengeful constituents, and vice versa. Then there’d been those sunken, fallen pariahs – “Not often. There were four monsters we dealt with. It may have been one of the few times all of the kingdoms worked together.” But the Colossus’s chieftain memories were a haze now – he wished he could describe it as well as she’d done with hers.
master of nothing place;
of recoil and grace


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