[Mini Event] Strangers in a Strange Land

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Group gatherings were not his one of his favorite things. They encompassed hordes of people, some foolish, some inept, some brave, some brazen, but altogether something he tended to avoid. Were it not for the promise of drink and knowledge of this strange country, he probably wouldn’t have come at all, straying elsewhere to explore, to maul, or to brood. Instead, he wandered along the outskirts of the hustle and bustle, content to be ignored entirely, snagging a resin of alcohol on the way by to shadow and darkness. He leaned against a post and studied, examined, those already roaming into the site, because he knew no one and nothing, and the sensation of ignorance was not welcome – his mind absorbed, calculated, bent machinations and traced ploys, ruses, deceptions when given enough time – memorized faces and names proffered into the void. The first was Ronin, soldier by name and rank, likely someone he’d come to know due to their similar occupations, though the way he spouted things about working together made him want to twitch and back out into the gloom; reality would be a harsh master towards Deimos, and he’d have to curb his predilection towards fleeing from the general public. Another youth hollered her consent into the refrain, embodying an ebullient, fractious grace, and he narrowed his stare at her briefly, pondering over the depths of future trials and tribulations sure to curl at her feet. Someone else raised their glass but said naught, and the last proffered more than a name, but a craft that garnered Deimos’ curiosity more so than all the others. A blacksmith was an important notion for warriors – weapons and armor, blades for cutting, swords for slashing, shields for guarding, for ramming, for pummeling – his skull was already a meticulous web, noting the artisan, waiting for someone to offer him a role. In guttural, quiet tones, Deimos extended his own alms. “If you require assistance in building, I can provide aid.” He nodded to Tristan, as if this was enough; not entirely charitable, meant to align with his future methods, means, and necessities. A soldier was naught without his munitions. Realizing he’d yet to introduce himself, social niceties were a discarded contortion, a thing of the past, he simply raised his drink from the shadows and bore nothing but his name along the threshold. “Deimos.” His capacities and capabilities would unfold eventually – aptitudes for death and damnation weren’t generally flaunted in common circles.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}