gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

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