making maps and drawing shots

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Moving on from the more rankling, exasperating topics, notes about communication were in order: and only because Loren had asked, did Deimos share his experience with the King’s abilities, opting to leave his ignorance of healing capabilities and his entire inexperience with the whole notions of assuaging, mending, or tending wounds aside. “Ronin used his astral projection while we were in the Spire. He could move, see, and direct us, but did not seem to come to harm.” As much as he could’ve been, considering he’d been infected with that damned blight; but without him, the Sword wasn’t certain how triumphant or successful they might’ve been – and even then, it was to destroy plants they believed were the cause of the disease; too little, too late, in their ignorance. He wouldn’t speak for the rest of it – whether or not Ronin would even want to be involved in any sense of communication, if he’d yearn to project himself between Temple and Monster Hunter’s Guild, if it was even a safe notion or task. Roana was seemed to be as difficult a topic as the procession and proceedings of LongNight. The kids were an issue, Roana’s proximity to them was an issue, where to even put her was an issue. Triplets running around the Guild Hall at all hours, loud, potentially obnoxious, wasn’t an ideal situation either, and he pressed an inward sigh at the complications surrounding the impending arrest. After all the nuances and notions, he wasn’t even entirely certain where Wessex wanted to place any of them. In the end, it sounded like the prison – cold, stark, and left to her own devices for LongNight. “All right,” he accepted, the terms, the conditions, and the warrant, his gaze flickering to the words, allowing ink to dry before folding it up and holding it in his hands, intending to place it within his coat and furs upon retrieval. Something about the whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth – the bridge of the unknown, the impending ferocity of Roana, and the enigmatic predilections of why calculating, coaxing, through his brain. Because of the blight? Or something more devious, more sinister? Orders were orders, and he’d follow them, but it didn’t mean he was without Machiavellian tendencies, or intending to mull over the various directions this task would entail. Even if the warrior came quietly, there were a whole host of other potential trials and tribulations. “I will ask Remi about accommodations for the children.” And if not, then maybe they would have to find an alternative route, and give them to Phoebe. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace