DEIMOS
Loren might’ve shaken his head, but Deimos had led armies, had cultivated soldiers, had trained them beneath the rubble and ruin of mountains. Perhaps they would have to agree to disagree on that front. “Capability could inspire the trust we are lacking.” Why would one join a collapsing, diminutive force, utterly ineffectual, reeling, failing? Why not show them they were willing to help? That they were strong, stalwart, and efficient? Confidence and composure could go a long way, incendiary in its own measures and calculations. For a lengthy time, they’d been bombarded with similar ilk – those who wanted to fight, those who wanted to destroy, those who wanted to condemn. Caido was different from Helovia in its constituents – less bloodshed, less annihilation, but still stark in its death count. But he figured not a single soul would venture towards a flailing, failing, fumbling militia. “It can start with Long Night preparations anyway. It should be our main focus for now.” They had nothing else to combat but the blight and the ominous monsters, which would be enough to keep them busy for the next few months.
As for the other notions of people tired from violence – who wasn’t exhausted and fatigued by war? Lethality and ash on tongues, cinder on lungs, graves and sepulchers, endless ivory tents lined with the dying, the screaming, the howling; compatriots alive in the morning and dead in the evening, nothing consecrated or blessed on those fields except momentary glory, seething in veins until the last ax and sword fell, until decimated iron was clear. It was loss and defeat and anguish – it was triumph until the next hour. They weren’t going to war here; they were preparing for onslaughts and treachery, for whatever came out of the woods, for whatever demonic forms took hold, for whatever threatened their people.
Fighting for their lives sounded like a good start; unfortunately, it would be upon them before they knew it. He nodded, understanding, comprehending, but having been baptized in its sanction too, knew the complexities of lives outside of invasions and tactics. Their roles were immersed in safeguarding and predilection, implementation for the inevitable.
Unfortunately, with the Manor’s already stained reputation, Loren might be hard-pressed to find many capable forms pressing for its doors. “You should prepare the Manor regardless. We will always need another strong safe hold.” Especially if there were some caught out in the eternal dusk, for one reason or another, bent and broken or chased into the night by siren swell and haunting calls; he would never forget screams beyond apertures and thresholds, begging to be answered, to be unlocked, to be let in. Friend or foe? Adversary or kin? The lines blurred with illusions and hallucinations, with mayhem and menace. His brows furrowed, contemplating if there were other places to reach besides the bar. “There is the Rathskellar. I wonder if the Artisan’s Guild would also suffice.” It would have the space, and the mages capable of ensuring its sanctum. The unicorns could provide aid, mending, or healing.
The alteration in subject matter, however, had him lifting his gaze away from the forest floor, deep in his musing efforts, snapping back up to search Loren’s stare. He could ascertain both sides of the matter: because the blighted represented an inferno of problems, scalding and unwinding, brutal and enraged, and there was no telling what would become of them as the season slipped into winter, as the stretch towards Long Night kept getting shorter and shorter. Except, they were also their friends, their companions, their comrades, and one of them their King. Kiada, forced into imprisoned walls? Ronin, made to be chained, tied, and tethered? He stepped back from the irreverence of the matter, more coldblooded than he’d been in a great while, heaving a sigh that brooded and stoked from his chest. “I could always incapacitate them. Or we could lure them in somehow. Provide them with food and water.” It sounded so inhumane. Like days in the Basin, when a predator sought out another predator, when carnivorous efforts met with rapacious, ravenous insight. A little like betrayal.
As for the other notions of people tired from violence – who wasn’t exhausted and fatigued by war? Lethality and ash on tongues, cinder on lungs, graves and sepulchers, endless ivory tents lined with the dying, the screaming, the howling; compatriots alive in the morning and dead in the evening, nothing consecrated or blessed on those fields except momentary glory, seething in veins until the last ax and sword fell, until decimated iron was clear. It was loss and defeat and anguish – it was triumph until the next hour. They weren’t going to war here; they were preparing for onslaughts and treachery, for whatever came out of the woods, for whatever demonic forms took hold, for whatever threatened their people.
Fighting for their lives sounded like a good start; unfortunately, it would be upon them before they knew it. He nodded, understanding, comprehending, but having been baptized in its sanction too, knew the complexities of lives outside of invasions and tactics. Their roles were immersed in safeguarding and predilection, implementation for the inevitable.
Unfortunately, with the Manor’s already stained reputation, Loren might be hard-pressed to find many capable forms pressing for its doors. “You should prepare the Manor regardless. We will always need another strong safe hold.” Especially if there were some caught out in the eternal dusk, for one reason or another, bent and broken or chased into the night by siren swell and haunting calls; he would never forget screams beyond apertures and thresholds, begging to be answered, to be unlocked, to be let in. Friend or foe? Adversary or kin? The lines blurred with illusions and hallucinations, with mayhem and menace. His brows furrowed, contemplating if there were other places to reach besides the bar. “There is the Rathskellar. I wonder if the Artisan’s Guild would also suffice.” It would have the space, and the mages capable of ensuring its sanctum. The unicorns could provide aid, mending, or healing.
The alteration in subject matter, however, had him lifting his gaze away from the forest floor, deep in his musing efforts, snapping back up to search Loren’s stare. He could ascertain both sides of the matter: because the blighted represented an inferno of problems, scalding and unwinding, brutal and enraged, and there was no telling what would become of them as the season slipped into winter, as the stretch towards Long Night kept getting shorter and shorter. Except, they were also their friends, their companions, their comrades, and one of them their King. Kiada, forced into imprisoned walls? Ronin, made to be chained, tied, and tethered? He stepped back from the irreverence of the matter, more coldblooded than he’d been in a great while, heaving a sigh that brooded and stoked from his chest. “I could always incapacitate them. Or we could lure them in somehow. Provide them with food and water.” It sounded so inhumane. Like days in the Basin, when a predator sought out another predator, when carnivorous efforts met with rapacious, ravenous insight. A little like betrayal.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
