Deimos
The heathen tied his concentration into creation, hands a steady, gilded glow, prospering attention into those particular folds and links to avoid the antagonistic recollections billowing behind his brow. Perhaps Kiada realized this, how taut and drawn he was, tethered, looped, and chained by his own, sometimes ridiculous, values. So he listened again and again, as she meandered along safer topics, and he understood what she was doing, obliged it so they wouldn’t have to keep marking and tracing over thinner lines in the sand, dust, and dirt. “It is different,” he surmised, lifting his eyes to catch hers for an instant, before riveting back to the armor. “My life drain felt more potent there.” Like death and desecration, like demolition and disaster, a constant, undermining theme to his movements, a poetic justice to everything he yearned to destroy. These necromantic features weren't quite the same - demonstrative and powerful, but with more limitations to their eldritch incantations. “But I could not touch anyone either.” He shrugged, acting as if it hadn’t been even more fringes and borders to a desolate, isolated world, tucking and blending himself into more shadows, into more infernos, where they couldn’t bend, yield, or turn into him, where they couldn’t place themselves in his path, where they were safer. Except here – here he can bend and fold and embrace just as much as the rest of them. He didn’t mention the whirlwind of his heart in those sacred seconds; she could likely surmise it for herself.
Do you miss them? was a cold inquiry in the back of his mind; the ghost of flames riddled along her back, dancing upon her spine - once haughty little lions or grand, elephantine spectacles. He gave the question no voice.
“Creation is strange to me too. Like the opposite of anything I have ever done.” Which inspired a laugh, a chuckle, erupting from his throat. It was true – he’d been war and munitions and assaults for so long, it was a bizarre insinuation to suddenly delve into making things instead of rendering them obsolete, broken, and maimed. “It is effective and useful though.” On those notes, he lifted the chainmail before him, before her, for further inspection, tilting his head, but unable to concoct any further without ensuring they were fitted to her form. Deimos extended the armor outwards, towards her waiting hands, portions meant to cover shoulders, collarbone, and torso, ending hopefully somewhere below her navel – presuming she didn’t want something heavy, something to burden or weigh her down during the onslaught of LongNight. “Try it?” Then he could make adjustments or anything else she required.
Do you miss them? was a cold inquiry in the back of his mind; the ghost of flames riddled along her back, dancing upon her spine - once haughty little lions or grand, elephantine spectacles. He gave the question no voice.
“Creation is strange to me too. Like the opposite of anything I have ever done.” Which inspired a laugh, a chuckle, erupting from his throat. It was true – he’d been war and munitions and assaults for so long, it was a bizarre insinuation to suddenly delve into making things instead of rendering them obsolete, broken, and maimed. “It is effective and useful though.” On those notes, he lifted the chainmail before him, before her, for further inspection, tilting his head, but unable to concoct any further without ensuring they were fitted to her form. Deimos extended the armor outwards, towards her waiting hands, portions meant to cover shoulders, collarbone, and torso, ending hopefully somewhere below her navel – presuming she didn’t want something heavy, something to burden or weigh her down during the onslaught of LongNight. “Try it?” Then he could make adjustments or anything else she required.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
