DEIMOS
His suggestion had not been readily ignored or immediately brutalized into nothing, so he tilted his head and listened to the rest of the commentary, soaking in the potentials, spiraling the calculations and meticulous efforts in his mind. Wessex knew enough about the monsters, apparently – senseless and shapeless (like water, fluid in their upcoming approach?), magical beams of light the only thing to counter their odious efforts. So they would need more: more Luxere (and with dark magic embedded in his skin, it made sense why it’d taken him so long to entice any of them; he was an opposing force to their nature), more fathoms, more reaches and depths of these contortions – especially with increased territory and terrain due to be under siege. When Remi’s eyes glanced over to him, the Sword raised his brow, the hint of a snicker resting there, before pulling away, back to a nonchalant stance. “We can,” agreeing and acknowledging running tests, experiments, hastening back and forth to see if there were any opportune results.
As for inventory of tools, his brow only arched a segment, pondering if he should reveal everything he’d been working on and cultivating for some time, with the notions of rebellion, with the insinuation of weaponry and massed insurrections, or even openly admitting he had creation magic along his entity – though some portions of the crowd were already aware. “I have a number of munitions and tools at my disposal,” he intoned to Wessex, not chancing another look to Remi – the curve of magical endeavors already at the alchemist’s grasp, and at Deimos’ as well, though the Sword was currently ignorant of the notion, had not yet tried to impart anything else into a blade or shield. “I can bring them,” – to wherever they were required, or they could investigate and observe their strength and accord too, he supposed, but he had no inclination of harboring himself in the depths of that damned manor.
Jigano’s appearance didn’t earn any change in the Reaper’s stance except for the movement of his eyes, gaze maneuvering to the bard as he exchanged another wealth and fountain of information. He wanted to ask where the man had acquired the sources – but maybe they were stacked in amongst the tomes of the guild, waiting to be plucked from the annals of the Sage’s mind. The tale of the last Long Night, when they’d assaulted one another, when Amalia had died carved some rancor into his chest, caused him to pause - the signature red antlers were now corded as a staff. He had naught else to add though – just thoughts and aspirations, listening in on the rest of the predilections and plans.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
