the thicker the skin the deeper the scar
Amalia <3
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#15
Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?
Failure after failure caught its lines and tethers on his shoulders, on his chest, on his soul; wore their way into his heart and lungs until everything was encased, shrouded, taut with nefarious iniquities and treacherous vines. So he went alone into voids and abysses with raised hackles and defiant growls, insouciant fire in the depths of his chilling, primordial soul, dashing those who plagued his kingdom on the rocks, delivering his ultimatums and oaths with cold indifference, warning the rest of the world to stay away. Sometimes he’d been utterly useless, ineffectual, the ineptitude rising even as a crown was placed upon his skull, even as he wore down pathlines from summit to border, even as he thrived on savagery and the bitter, twisted unknown, more and more and more isolated and detached as machinations and irreverence blurred, together in barbaric interludes. There’d been no room for faith in the divine, in anyone or anything but himself, undulating muscles and hulking mass striking down on the hearts of those who sought, thought, to ravage and pillage from his kingdom, from his world. It was expected, for his body to be hollowed and his insides to be nonchalant, for his frame to bludgeon, for his swords to plunge deep into another’s – sanctioned, bestial death, fine in the abandonment, thinking of nothing but them and their lost children, their imprisonments, their shackles, their nooses. He didn’t really matter in the end, only to a few, another machine for their protection, a safeguard, a strangling hold on enemies, unaware he was making a pariah of himself. The Reaper will save us and he’d tried, he’d tried, he’d tried for every damned moment of his sovereignty, carrying the weight of the mantle, the diadem, eventually just as soulless as the rest of them – monster and behemoth, infidel and outcast.

That was the way it had always been – solidified in stony features and carved, sculpted armaments; a ghost, a phantom, a wraith of his own making, too far gone to ever reach forward and pull. No one would have bothered. No one would have cared. He’d done the same to some of them: stared, watched, as they wilted and decayed, saying nothing, doing nothing, as howls belittled and distinctions were tossed.

He didn’t want her faith misplaced, didn’t want it wasted, on something, someone, so hopeless.

They will still surged against him, mighty and ferocious, and he couldn’t remember a solid world to stand upon until winter’s breadth closing in on him, the vivid mountains rising to the heavens (not a realm for him, but for auroras, for endless opportunities). Except now he had her, incandescent and dedicated, bold and bright, and he didn’t want to shield his eyes. It didn’t make him less afraid, less terrified, to linger in the presence of suns and moons and stars, but like he could be more –

The notion dangled like a snare, beguiled and allured by it. Instead, he absorbed the steadfast hold of her arms as she wrapped herself around him, vivid reassurance for a being who didn’t know how to receive it, proffering a slow, steady breath in return as his hands clung and his heartbeat thundered, quick and swift and damned, swallowing down the bile cloaking and choking. The beast thought she might be a lifeline, dragging him across Stygian rivers, and he clutched, he grasped, he hid in her, entwined and irreparable, preparing, steeling, and forging himself for the inevitable.

What did he ever deserve but condemnation?

The Sword looked down into the Shield’s eyes, another sigh fading from his chest, all the reassurance and love and pride and adoration for him, an unbelievable insinuation and invocation that he tied himself to – coming apart in her hands, in her gaze. He could feel his walls crumbling and he strived to put them together again, but she was there on his mouth before he could do anything else. The warrior’s gaze, forlorn and desperate, closed at the feel of her, lips stroking and stoking in return, wretched and aflame and gone, so utterly gone and lost and fragmented, split in a catalyst’s wake. Then he leaned in, his forehead against hers, “Okay,” on an echo, on a promise, the dread and apprehension threatening to crawl over him.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: shark Offline
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Posts: 3,098 | Total: 4,577
MP: 2580
#16
AMALIA
THE SHIELD OF SAFRIN
i think it's beautiful how a star's light
travels the universe long after it dies
Has she ever seen him so fragile, so anxious, so open and exposed? Has she ever seen him afraid before, of the future, of what might be? Not like this- and as much as it hurts her to see him shudder, it makes her love him more. More than mountain, more than mettle, Deimos is a man beneath it all, a thing that can break and fall apart but doesn't, doesn't, and she is proud of him for it.

Her hand continues to trace his face, their breathing intermingling as their foreheads rest upon each other, eyes closed tight against the world, the rest of it left behind. The demons they carry, the mountains they wield, the crushing failures and inadequacies that settle on their shoulders - she exhales them in one shared breath, willing them to fall away like raindrops in a storm. Believe, she wants to whisper to him, to sing into his mind. You do not have to carry your ghosts alone.

Okay, he says, a single word that gives her more than she expected, fills her with a bliss she cannot name. Smiling, the baker raises her chin again, lips pressing once more into his: softly, gently, promises unsaid, faith given freely again and again. He has never let her down, never asked for anything she has not wanted to give; he has never done anything but give himself freely, and she does not understand how he does not see it, how he has managed to eclipse his own light with doubt.

Again Amalia pulls away, her forehead still on his. "I love you, Deimos," she whispers into the space between them, her fingers in his beard. "No matter what you choose."
That's what I want to be in this world —
someone whose light lingers after I'm gone

Coding base by Sky!
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#17
Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?
There were times where he would’ve liked to break; fallen in pieces, in frayed strands, beneath the weight of anything and everything – ghosts and specters, wraiths and tombs, claws raking down his sides, failure bounding for his heart, contorting its rhythm to shards, slivers, and fissures. There were times where he likely should’ve, bowing his head instead, contorting and covering himself in mantles, in barricades, in bastions and cannons, hardening, iron and forge and steel, pretending he wasn’t a fool, settling in his abysmal pretenses and blistering, scathing whims. Utterly mortal and immoral, shaking at the thought of his imminent debacles, because at his core, that was who he was (inadequate, inept, trying, trying, trying, stretching out his arms and his hands to catch them all and missing).

He’d like to leave everything behind – just them, for a second, for a moment, without the overtures of doom sneaking and snaking along their shoulders and spines. She billowed the onslaught away, and he grasped hold as if she were everything, eyes still closed, the depths of his gaze covered, not betraying the scorching scores of insinuations and defeats in the cluster of blue. Her lips were on his again, bright and ardent, faith and deliverance, credence and convictions coiling into his core, leaning into her embrace, striving to match her depths, her dreams.

What would it be like, to believe in himself?

The beast didn’t want her to pull away, because it meant that the inevitable was coming, that his lack of success was only a foreboding venture now – pressing down on his soul, a knife brandished towards his ribs. But the blade stayed and stilled at her voice, at her chords, wondering if he could drown in it, willingly refuse to resurface in the fathoms of her devotion. “Love you,” he shortened and pressed, no matter what you choose billowing against his chest; no matter the failure, no matter the outcome. His stare reopened, segmenting straight at her, hands clutching at hers, desperate to find strength to move forward, to go, go, go, towards shrines beneath moonlight and stars, dusk falling over them. “I will come find you,” when it is over, whether he’d succeeded or floundered.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams


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