DEIMOS
Deimos bore no shame in the markings, in the sketches of his scars, the way they crawled over his arms, his chest, his back, deep gashes healed over only to a certain stature and point, left there to scintillate or devastate in memories and recollections. Each one meant endurance, perseverance, and fortitude, tales etched and sketched in brutal infernos and malignant motions – but they maneuvered the narratives into decibels and alluring voids of survival, the slash of a sword, the clash of an ax, the broad, undulating power from another adversary steeped in his blood, in his skin, on his flesh. He’d lived while the enemy might not; the harsh monstrosities of pain and anguish well worth the next agonizing onslaught, a rumbling growl, low and harsh in his chest, as he plummeted his sword into another. However, his hadn’t been emblazoned on his figure from family, the inhabitants, the people, who were meant to love and protect; so he could understand the way Loren tucked them aside, beneath, forgoing their existence for the moment, not giving into their structure, their multitudes of mayhem. Even if he’d come out stronger for it, the terror and tyranny would be enough to sway, to swindle, to depart into ghosts and wraiths, the entanglement of hostility – struck by blood and bonds.
There were more creators in he and Remi’s midst – which was wise to understand when the poor alchemist was exhausted and fatigued again, constantly asked to magical incantations and a summoning of more. Loren apparently had more than just the art of concoction though, along with healing and telekinesis, an intriguing, interesting balance. Perhaps the Reaper’s was too – power in devastation and ruin, then opuses and oeuvres. “And you summon animals?” Was that what the other mage had said in the meeting? The entire thing was a blur, truth be told, voices waging war over incensed, misplaced rage, hostilities and acrimonies festering even when it had all been for the greater good, a lack of composure amongst some. “Healing is not effective against those who hold life drain,” an exchange of information waylaid; experiences at least passed to another. Deimos would know. Vai had tried.
As far as illusion mages and their trickey, the Sword held none of these particular items. He had raw power and machinations – but none of those things blocked the intricacies of duplicity and speciousness, except the cunning of his own mind, except the blistering ferocity and malevolence stored in his frame. Non-lethal means almost made him laugh, because Deimos rarely held back when others or himself were in danger, under attack; the Spire the latest of endeavors where his manifestations of vitriol and vehemence had laid waste to poison and venom. But he’d had an extension of death since he was born – it was a natural, intrinsic thing. “I have significant control over it.” He shrugged, likely too much at ease with the ploys of danger and disaster, when it fueled and entangled itself along his veins, as comfortable to his existence as breathing. He wouldn’t swarm allies with it, nor he did he ever sling spells indiscriminately. Composure and command were in his being, in his core, in his entity. “What sort of items?” He leaned into the prior notion, pondering if he could create something to the effect – to protect himself, and those he cherished. “Something that blocks, absorbs, or shields?”
There were more creators in he and Remi’s midst – which was wise to understand when the poor alchemist was exhausted and fatigued again, constantly asked to magical incantations and a summoning of more. Loren apparently had more than just the art of concoction though, along with healing and telekinesis, an intriguing, interesting balance. Perhaps the Reaper’s was too – power in devastation and ruin, then opuses and oeuvres. “And you summon animals?” Was that what the other mage had said in the meeting? The entire thing was a blur, truth be told, voices waging war over incensed, misplaced rage, hostilities and acrimonies festering even when it had all been for the greater good, a lack of composure amongst some. “Healing is not effective against those who hold life drain,” an exchange of information waylaid; experiences at least passed to another. Deimos would know. Vai had tried.
As far as illusion mages and their trickey, the Sword held none of these particular items. He had raw power and machinations – but none of those things blocked the intricacies of duplicity and speciousness, except the cunning of his own mind, except the blistering ferocity and malevolence stored in his frame. Non-lethal means almost made him laugh, because Deimos rarely held back when others or himself were in danger, under attack; the Spire the latest of endeavors where his manifestations of vitriol and vehemence had laid waste to poison and venom. But he’d had an extension of death since he was born – it was a natural, intrinsic thing. “I have significant control over it.” He shrugged, likely too much at ease with the ploys of danger and disaster, when it fueled and entangled itself along his veins, as comfortable to his existence as breathing. He wouldn’t swarm allies with it, nor he did he ever sling spells indiscriminately. Composure and command were in his being, in his core, in his entity. “What sort of items?” He leaned into the prior notion, pondering if he could create something to the effect – to protect himself, and those he cherished. “Something that blocks, absorbs, or shields?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
