DEIMOS
In truth – only some portions made sense: Ronin getting worse because he might’ve been amongst the first struck by the pestilence, or because Safrin was effected, the potential spread from the Spire’s adornments, cast into water and trickling along barriers, the tulmhainar suffering below earth mounds. The other notes didn’t in particular: based on the amount of poison Deimos ingested amidst the Spire (now multiple times), constantly curling and coiling beneath his mask, making him cough, making him hack, making him burn, he should’ve been infected long ago. “Zuriel healed us soon after. And helped to aid Arduinna when the Undine was inflicted.” But maybe that was pure happenstance too – luck and fortune and kismet when he wasn’t used to those nuances. There might’ve been an answer in there, between all the muck and mire and confusion, but he wash aving difficulty plucking it out. A measured sigh flowed through his chest and he swallowed another swig; contemplating more as he swallowed. It was difficult to choose pathways now – after they’d already riveted upon one and found it sorely lacking, a dead, dismal end, time shortened, wasted, despite their well-meaning sojourns and crusades. “I do not know,” which seemed to sum up the entire damned event – didn’t know a single thing that could aid them now, to buy them more time, to instigate cures and containment of contagions. “Are we aware of how many have been infected?” Or the symptoms? Was there a rhyme, a reason, a way they’d all become bitten by the blight? Or did it even matter now – with everything falling away?
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
