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 Deimos had been born into a world of cunning. His mother wouldn’t have allowed for anything less, raising him to be a calculating, meticulous figure. Think about it, she would utter, a voice commanding and demanding even in its softer intonations, arching her brow, rigid and unyielding. Even when his father displayed a more impulsive nature, the Reaper had failed to apply it to his own being, forging along with machinations, with designs, with cold, devious, scheming airs. It broadened into reticence, into nonchalance, into deceptive, specious tendencies, even while he hunted, explored, and trained for grander, stronger capabilities. So when he recognized something advantageous, like the notice posted on the board, he fixated on it, let it burn and kindle in the back of his mind. While he had his own assorted array of talents, death had always been the foremost fixture; alchemy had its values, and he knew only a bare minimum of the subject, never having tamed or learned the arts. His skills had been with swords, with knives, with daggers, with damnation and the gallows, sending cretins and creatures to oblivion. Chemistry could have edges, conveniences, and superiority in some respects, and the warrior wasn’t one to shy away from leverage, influence, or resources. With an alchemist shop in place, wares to beat down opponents, to protect and shield, could be gained easily, rapidly…and he had no qualms about using his strength. He was broad, he was capable, he was durable, muscular and tenacious enough to warrant enough rugged, stalwart force. The sooner it was completed, the sooner he could acquire and secure means of bestial calamity.
|
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
