DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
In truth, he had zero desire to return to the Spire after their latest exploits. While their former sojourn had been successful in demolishing and extinguishing poisonous plants, the results had gone no further. They were back at square one – no further than when they’d begun breathing venom. He was useless again.But this opportunity served him with some modicum of purpose; one he’d employed almost the majority of his lifetime: swords and cutlasses, shields and blackguards, throwing his weight into lacerations, into melees, into skirmishes, into crusades, existing as a weapon, a machinating machine. The beast knew the ins and outs of war, of standing beside comrades and allies, of uniting between violence and vehemence, blending into their irreverent purges and plunges. It was natural. It was inherent. It was in his blood, in his skin, in his tarnished, nefarious soul.
So Deimos still arrived, beneath the eyes of the tower, head held high and munitions at his belt: swords, knives, daggers, in case his prowess needed to be displayed, shown. But if it was Wessex – perhaps she already knew and understood. Hadn’t they been molded into similar forms? He nodded in her direction, not proclaiming or announcing who he was, what he was there for; no need, once a warrior, always a warrior.
