Deimos
“To none of her benefit,” he snorted, the memory all but a distant haze now. Those minor, insignificant moments, that in smoking, molten milliseconds, had caused him to withdraw even further, cold, cold, cold, desperate to contort and control the necromancy, the fervent plunge of death in his veins. He’d separated himself from them for their safety, and they’d pressed, especially Rexanna, sometimes simply to see if they could. Whether or not it had been cruel didn’t seem to matter – for either side – because now he had no options, couldn’t yield or get away from them if he’d tried.
And he didn’t – finally immersed in some token of family, not by blood, but all the bonds joining them together.
Her comparison to building instead of tearing things down gave him pause; because that’s where his life had been at some point, ghastly and barbaric, intent on destruction and mayhem, what he’d been trained and honed to do, to orchestrate, to defy. Blades had been the end all, be all, the might, the prowess, the unhinged ruin, ghastly irreverence in the shape of emboldened reveries, tides swept for glory, for triumph, for desecration. “It is,” he agreed. Another change and alteration in him, to not have to automatically render consignments of oblivion, to slash a scythe, to raise Reaper inclinations and bouts of hell; other considerations and options left to his calloused palms. “We can appreciate the versatility.” He managed another smile, before the call of armor heightened, and he was left to linger, loiter, and wait while she tried it on.
Deimos’ eyes didn’t miss the way her throat tightened, but failed to ask about the nuances behind it. There were a number of things one experienced when placing chainmail and metal across their frames – preparation, for the pending assaults, for the warring sieges, for the inevitably of another pressing their ilk, their munitions, against one’s form. But then there was the rush too, the fervent energy of chaotic foils and fervor, accustomed tempests rising along storms, along gazes, along footfalls and paths of demolition. He understood every rampart, every fortification, every notion of the sensation – had felt them too when and where the armor lingered, other ghosts of the battlefield. “Ready,” he announced. Ready for whatever came her way; as she so often was, a fury, a ferocity, for the rest of the world to watch and bear witness. “Do you need anything else?”
And he didn’t – finally immersed in some token of family, not by blood, but all the bonds joining them together.
Her comparison to building instead of tearing things down gave him pause; because that’s where his life had been at some point, ghastly and barbaric, intent on destruction and mayhem, what he’d been trained and honed to do, to orchestrate, to defy. Blades had been the end all, be all, the might, the prowess, the unhinged ruin, ghastly irreverence in the shape of emboldened reveries, tides swept for glory, for triumph, for desecration. “It is,” he agreed. Another change and alteration in him, to not have to automatically render consignments of oblivion, to slash a scythe, to raise Reaper inclinations and bouts of hell; other considerations and options left to his calloused palms. “We can appreciate the versatility.” He managed another smile, before the call of armor heightened, and he was left to linger, loiter, and wait while she tried it on.
Deimos’ eyes didn’t miss the way her throat tightened, but failed to ask about the nuances behind it. There were a number of things one experienced when placing chainmail and metal across their frames – preparation, for the pending assaults, for the warring sieges, for the inevitably of another pressing their ilk, their munitions, against one’s form. But then there was the rush too, the fervent energy of chaotic foils and fervor, accustomed tempests rising along storms, along gazes, along footfalls and paths of demolition. He understood every rampart, every fortification, every notion of the sensation – had felt them too when and where the armor lingered, other ghosts of the battlefield. “Ready,” he announced. Ready for whatever came her way; as she so often was, a fury, a ferocity, for the rest of the world to watch and bear witness. “Do you need anything else?”
i rule the stars, not the other way around
