Even in his own more charitable moments, the Reaper was still granted apprehension. He could understand it – his hulking form was likely enough, but combined with his nonchalant features, his irreverent tendencies, and the forbearing prowess of death stuck in his soul, he was formidable, glowering, and potentially a behemoth rendered, crafted, and sculpted into tangibility. Some days it worked into his favor, and he was left quite alone, detached, a formidable presence in the shadows, hovering in the darkness, devising, orchestrating, and conducting plots, ruses, or schemes. Today, however, it likely wouldn’t contort into his benefit – the warrior nearly expected the alchemist, with his flickering, bewildered smile, to send him away. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last, that another had seen him coming and forbade his presence. Few had ever willingly come towards his company, but he was pleasantly surprised when Remi offered his hand, returning it with his own rough, calloused, battle-hewn grasp, dropping it at the sound of more footsteps.
When another approached, blonde and lithe, he was all the more bewildered when she nodded in his direction, polite, not hissing, not spitting, not shooing him from the confines. There was even a nice to meet you, which Deimos had rarely, if ever, heard directed at himself. He proffered a dip of his skull as well to Isla, and then the meeting seemed over; abruptly carried on into their main objective and purpose. He loosened a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
His steady, chilling gaze wandered back to the chosen domicile, noting the features and places requiring restoration. Without a word, he strode forward, a beast of action and movement instead of dialogue and discourse, maneuvering over the vacant pieces of clutter lying along the floor. His eyes flicked back and forth from the main columns needing reinforcement, and snagged a few of the more robust pieces of wood, grabbing hold and tucking them under his arms until he managed to snag his desired amount. Then he lowered himself to the ground, not caring about dust, about ash, about ruin, tarnished and sullied from it lifetimes before, attempting to align them in a more triangular shape along the bottom boundaries of the pillar. With brute force and a few handy rocks laying nearby, he whittled and sculpted them to adhere beneath his hands, pushing them into place, where they’d likely be strong, sturdy, and capable of adhering to the post.
{Deimos tries to help reinforce the main column!}
