[PQ] Hammer and Forge

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 The Reaper was many things: naturally, inherently flawed, prone to action rather than eloquence, and damned, consigned to oblivion throughout several lives. However, he also had several virtues, including adamant determination, a strange sense of integrity, and the ability to keep his word (what few he ever proclaimed). At one point it had earned him comrades in arms, fellow citizens baring the same knives, daggers, and cutlasses at his side, akin to friendship in a world now since lost. Presently, it served him as he roamed down the street, another callous, ominous omen, intending to honor his proposal. It wasn’t entirely out of charity – his calculations had been simple: the faster the blacksmith was created and forged, the quicker he’d be able to get his hands on quality weapons. In his occupation, they were a necessity, a lifeline, quick and sudden, abrupt and apathetic, indifferent and nonchalant – a living, breathing, extension of his efforts and designs. Another stone building had been selected. Deimos wasn’t entirely surprised; there seemed to be ample supply of rock and ruin around the area, and it would be wise to use the most available resources. It must’ve been used in the past for similar motives, as it had an adequate structure, merely fallen to lack of use and disrepair. It was a challenge, but hardly a Herculean task – his muscles, brawn, and intellect would serve to complete the necessities. In vigilant silence, his hands dug into one of the many pockets of his trench coat and snagged a favored item, some delicate blue cloth that he made no mention of to anyone else, worn and faded in some of the corners, and used it to tie back the longer strands of his hair. Only thereafter did he realize no words had come out of his mouth, no greeting, no salutations extended towards the owner, Tristan, who stood amidst the rabble with obvious scrutiny laced along his features. So the warrior shrugged, and proffered his services again with the same gruff overtones, no fanciful discourse, no warm greetings, equipped for exploits and feats. “Where should we start?”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}