DEIMOS
Apparently Loren wasn’t in the mood or correct circumstances; only theorized. Deimos wasn’t offended that the fellow mage didn’t seem obliged in his presence – but he would’ve guarded, protected, and led him back home without hesitation. It was normalcy, sword in his hand and ferocity on his breath, coiled in his chest like oxygen, fully capable of insinuating safeguarding and tactical measures, ensuring safety in his mighty, dastardly convictions. But perhaps he wasn’t trusted, and it was understandable – he shrugged off the happenstance. “I would not leave you to fend for yourself,” he proffered instead, chancing a glance at Zuriel as his words slid into the grove, into the copse, her head turning and snickering. The Sword wouldn’t push him either.
However, at his inclination and inquiry, Loren’s brows furrowed, and he watched the alteration with a nonchalant demeanor, either awaiting further disapproval, nothing at all, or some applicable notations. Maybe Deimos’ inclinations towards actions instead of constant, overwhelming discourse had already settled its roots into the area, and the other man applied them – in the midst of silence, conjuring, summoning, and brandishing a figment of a world the Reaper had been forced to leave behind (first in death, and then when it was consumed by shadow).
At its manifestation, not nine-tailed but five, the ethereal conjectures and alignment caused him to unleash a true, nearly boyish smile, approaching quietly, crouching near its sanction, studying and examining the magical distortions. “Well done,” he offered, still staring, enjoying its presence; something akin to home. “In Helovia, some citizens had kitsunes for companions.” They’d chased and frolicked in snow, but had been capable of so much damage (which, in turn, he’d admired them for). “They often used illusions too. Or fire.” There might’ve been some others, but the memories were fleeting – this incorporeal, intangible substance just enough to relish and savor days long, long gone.
However, at his inclination and inquiry, Loren’s brows furrowed, and he watched the alteration with a nonchalant demeanor, either awaiting further disapproval, nothing at all, or some applicable notations. Maybe Deimos’ inclinations towards actions instead of constant, overwhelming discourse had already settled its roots into the area, and the other man applied them – in the midst of silence, conjuring, summoning, and brandishing a figment of a world the Reaper had been forced to leave behind (first in death, and then when it was consumed by shadow).
At its manifestation, not nine-tailed but five, the ethereal conjectures and alignment caused him to unleash a true, nearly boyish smile, approaching quietly, crouching near its sanction, studying and examining the magical distortions. “Well done,” he offered, still staring, enjoying its presence; something akin to home. “In Helovia, some citizens had kitsunes for companions.” They’d chased and frolicked in snow, but had been capable of so much damage (which, in turn, he’d admired them for). “They often used illusions too. Or fire.” There might’ve been some others, but the memories were fleeting – this incorporeal, intangible substance just enough to relish and savor days long, long gone.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
