who we are and all that we're trying to be
Asking the gods had never been high on Deimos’ list of things to accomplish or do. Only on the rarest occasion had the notion ever worked out – and that had been to alter his soul, split it between magic and shifting – otherwise, he was ignored, an Abandoned force, faith and credence hard to come by. Devotion was to individuals and not deities, the constant string of disregarded inquiries substantial, and he preferred commitment to those who’d earned it, deserved it, proffering his strength, might, and will wherever they required. “Nor I,” he intoned, lacking the laughter Remi brought; incapable of knowing, of understanding, just how many much Remi’s journeys and crusades to temples and vows had earned him in curses, in onslaughts, in terrors – unaware and ignorant that perhaps the Sword had been better off in the long run. He tilted his head a little, fingers coiling over the staff while he brooded, while he ruminated, while he speculated on telling Remi about his latest adventure with the quests and alterations; if it was even worth noting, too little really, in the regards and preamble of the alchemist’s accomplishments. It was a toiling debate in his mind, too often saying naught at all about himself and leaving the rest of the world to muddle it out – a preference a majority of the time, only bothering to extend himself to those he trusted. Maybe that was where Remi’s presence lingered now. He dangled a thread aloft, pondered if the other beast would bite. “I was only successful on my last venture to Safrin’s shrine.” With a multitude of ghosts in his wake, some shrieking, some imparting, some imploring; all poignant, haunting measures of things he’d allowed to drift away, lost, lost, lost.
As far as the notion of fire, or weaponry at all, it sounded as if they hadn’t really been considered. In the layers of tradition, they’d hidden and tucked themselves, out of sight, out of mind, from the perils of monsters, and while he’d experienced it last year, he couldn’t imagine doing the same year after year, with no end in sight, with no means to conquer or crush the wayward demons crossing into paths, mauling, and murdering. Was it just accepted? Or were they the cretins in this game, incapable of listening, rushing out into the void, hungering for more demolition of things they didn’t understand? He nodded his head, pondering if he’s simply crossed too far merely on the notion of a way to combat things that terrorized, treading where he wasn’t wanted, investigating on the edges of you do not belong here. It was a stark reminder, so he wisely went no further, not intending to disrupt any other notions (just wanted to do something). “Understood.” So he didn’t clamber or brandish inclinations of fire and infernos, of perhaps, magical flames embedded in weapons, in a flurry of a thousand other possibilities and probabilities. “Something else to ask Wessex.” The Wraith – who’d lived here, who’d meandered there for decades, who would either declare it a non-issue or allow them to apply more knowledge in the trepidations.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
