making maps and drawing shots

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame More slashing words and knives embedded in discourse, his eyes glancing back and forth as each individual refused to give in, tenacious, stubborn, and obstinate in their stances. He could appreciate the worth of grounds and pedestals to stand upon, hills they’d die on, but wasn’t certain of this subject being the mountain he’d holler from. Perhaps there were other things searing and simmering behind brewing convictions, maybe the Queen refused to back down out of principle, maybe Loren couldn’t fathom the layers and lacquer embedded between her reasons and motivations. The measure of a ruler remained an intriguing notion; mostly because he’d been one, done this time and time again, favored none of it except the plunge of his sword into an enemy’s, an adversary’s, frame. A threat upon his kingdom had always been something meant to be extinguished, meant to be decimated, demolished, and discarded without fanfare or regard. So his perception, his experiences, were drawn and quartered, but his responses silent, waiting for some other ax to fall. He wasn’t ignored this time, an address likely to ensure his involvement was still required; he nodded, no diatribes necessary with quiet, silent acceptance. Guards would be found, children would be placed in their aunt’s trust and threshold until LongNight’s approach, and there were no weapons or jewelry left upon her. Deimos had already begun to calculate and machinate those nuances – aware of at least one that had an ability to thwart any of his invocations’ efforts. “Consider it done,” he surmised with another nod, jaw clenched, forged straight back into his indifferent haze – when he was anything but, surmising, meticulous, scrupulously detailed into the fold, turning to leave as they were dismissed, to follow through on convictions and vows. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace