Before the storm

The days were growing shorter, alarmingly so considering how much needed to be done still. Not that there was ever enough that could be done to prepare enough to keep everyone safe. The monsters always found a crack, a chink in the armor of all the Settlement did, and they oozed within and stole lives and souls both. This year the barrierfolk were grimly determined, however, hardened from last year's crucible and strengthened by a year spent careening from one catastrophe to the next.

Jigano had brought some of his lessons on himself, and survived others that no one could have anticipated. The blight had broken him down, showed him true despair and rage, and left him reconsidering what he thought he'd known about himself. What was important, and what was mere ego. What was worth loving, and protecting, and learning humility for.

Amalia needed him to be stronger. Kiada needed him to be stronger. And Rory was unimpressed with the bard's protests. Between the three of them he was left with no choice but to acknowledge that something needed to change, and that, as he had caused the rift, it would be up to him to make the first step to repair the fragile bridge that had once spanned it.

So it was that midafternoon, in the middle of a brewing snowstorm with the wind just beginning to whip the white flakes sideways through the air, a Provost bundled into his furred cloak gathered his courage and his patience and knocked on the General's door.

Deimos

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The Sword had spent most of his morning hours prepping what he could, a few last hunting spells, intending to maintain a steady supply despite the overwhelming amount they already had (it could always be preserved for a later juncture), and utilizing the remains of his woodpile outside, lugging the timber back and forth into the residence and placing them before the hearth. Before long he’d built a sturdy fire, kept it going throughout the day, feeding the flames into a sanctified atmosphere they (what a foreign concept; when a year ago it’d been empty and vacant and just him; arches of desolation and some odd satisfaction in the isolation – simple, but not content, just a slide of familiarity in a strange new world) could maintain until the last possible moments. Zuriel lingered before the fireplace now, curled and coiled, content, while the wind echoed a throng outside, pending snowstorms, age-old primordial reminders of a time, of a place, where the constant winter had been something they cherished. With Amalia still at the bakery, he occupied himself with other tasks, stretching some assemblage of armor across his kitchen table, a just in case measure, calculations never a far reach from his mind, endeavoring to grant them to someone. Given enough hours, he might’ve accumulated a fair number of piles of looped, linked chainmail, or solid steel braces, aligning them to perfection, meticulous and fervent in his machinations. However, there was a knock on the door. Zuriel tilted her head, lazily considering, before lowering her cranium altogether; so not an impending threat. Who would be here amidst the brewing, brimming storm? Amalia, Kiada, Hotaru, nor Rexanna would bother rapping their knuckles upon the door, inviting themselves within immediately – so his thoughts roamed to either strangers or acquaintances, seeking to find the General. Perhaps someone who required an item? More than once he’d proffered his weaponry skills to the general public; and even though Remi easily outmanaged him in that regard, maybe the alchemist had been busy, and Deimos was the only one left to ask. Out of utter curiosity, he rose from his chair, confident steps striding through the aperture, opening it to glance down – At Jigano. He hid his surprise behind well-practiced nonchalance, the reticence unfolding along his eyes, his jaw, before either widened in befuddlement or slackened in shock. In actuality, he wasn’t certain how he was supposed to react. They’d worked around one another recently, between perch building, meetings, and LongNight tasks at the Monster Hunter’s Guild, afforded themselves politeness, but nothing of what it once was – tenuous and tempestuous at best. The beast’s breath was steady and composed, but the rest of him was confused. “Jigano,” he noted by way of introduction, opening his door to allow the man through. In another time, he might’ve left him to stand out on along the intervals of snow and chill; a more rapacious Reaper wouldn’t have spared him a glance. “What brings you here?” Maybe Amalia? That contortion would make more sense – but then, given the time of day, the Sage wouldn’t understood to head to the bakery first. His brows furrowed slightly, but that was all, as he shut the door behind them. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

There was no way for this to be not awkward, but it couldn't be put off any longer now that the blight no longer held him in its sway. His eyes were clear and blue again, and only a faint trembling in his hands revealed the last vestiges of the sickness of body and soul that had once shaken him to his core. The corruption was no longer an excuse to avoid potentially difficult situations, and he was glad when the door opened and Deimos stood calm and stoic in its frame.

It meant he wouldn't have to try and gather his courage twice for what he was about to do.

"Hello, Deimos," he said with quiet courtesy, trying to ignore the uncertain tension in his stomach as he stood with outward serenity. He gave a small bow of gratitude, accepting the General's hospitality and stepping within - pausing only to shake as much snow from his cloak and boots as he could manage quickly before clearing the doorway so his host could shut it again and stop the warmth from escaping.

"I... have been remiss in coming to apologize for what I said to you while Zariah still ruled. It is something that I wanted to do before LongNight." He drew in a breath, then bowed low to the other man, ignoring the stubborn protests of his pride more easily now that he knew what was at stake. "I am sorry for not trusting you, and for impugning your courage that day." He rose, uncertain what the other man's response would be, knowing only that Deimos had a way of confounding all expectations. He didn't expect or even hope for forgiveness, but if he had learned one thing it was that Deimos would do what Deimos would do, and not all his guessing would prepare him for what that ended up being.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Whatever the Sword had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Memories of before were bitter, rancorous echoes; plans and machinations dissolving quickly, swiftly, on bouts of anger, vehemence, and vitriol, their tempestuous grounds littered with more mercurial tides. Were he a better individual he may not have prolonged or instigated the jabs, somewhere in between he could take credit for his provocations, his words had been sharpened, daggers and knives, and then the Sage had taken it upon himself to open up far more lacerations and wounds. Whether nor not he’d deserved the marks upon his soul may not have mattered, they’d been placed there regardless, pulsing and persisting well after Jigano’s departure. Because Deimos had always been aware of his flaws, of his defects, of all the virtues he soundly lacked, but to hear he lacked strength, bravery, or valor, had dug in deep. While he might not have shown ever repeated the insinuations, they still lingered every now and again. You will be better; a haunting, looming force behind his eyes, pushing him far more forward than the ghosts of the Reaper’s blade. He didn’t deserve Jigano’s bows, and was about to say as much, but then the apologies swarmed and he was left with a slight bewilderment, head tilted, ears and skull reverberating the refrains again, as if he’d heard wrong. While he had acted much in the same way they had before blights, before pestilence, before tyrannical Queens and minutemen Kings, the bard had remained standoffish and aloof towards him, a cautious, maintained distance. So Deimos had simply believed it would stay that way – like everything else that he’d permitted to flicker apart and away from him. Cold and stark and desolate; habitual, routine, and normal, until coming here. So now what? What was the purpose of making amends? The monolith’s eyes narrowed, speculative, uncertain of where to go from here. He wasn’t one that received apologies. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually regretted shifting him out of their lives. Who bothered to regard stones and boulders, crags and mountains, presuming they would remain steadfast and sure, a certainty, until the very end? His breath was low, lingering, a puff of warm air while he mulled over the situation. Return the favor? Perhaps he wasn’t used to expressing means of forgiveness either; he’d cut and brutalized enough, but rarely had anyone to roam back to and offer, ask, for pardons. “Accepted.” He said instead of all the other things he could’ve maligned, could’ve reached down into the pits of anger and rage and contempt, once resting there for what felt like an eternity – but that wasn’t becoming better. That was just yielding to his arcane, primordial whims, and it wouldn’t truly solve anything. So his tones were deep and obliging, no ivories clenched, no teeth grinding. “I apologize for insinuating you were useless.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

He stayed bowed long enough to be respectful, but straightened before it could become obsequious, outwardly calm but inwardly tense, heart sped up enough to be audible in his eardrums. Deimos was stoic, giving little away, but the way he looked at the bard seemed almost thoughtful, and Jigano was just glad it wasn't outward anger. He schooled himself to patient silence, wondering with faint bemusement at how easily it came to him when he was with Rory, but how hard it was around so many others. Words weren't simply his weapons; they were his armor and his mask as well, and it felt strange to set them aside with someone he shared no intimacy with.

It was, however, the better choice than the alternative, and one which was rewarded with Deimos's rumbling word. It wasn't forgiveness; there was work to be done to earn that, if it could be earned. But it was a step in the right direction, and a far better answer than the alternative. Before Jigano could muster a response, however, the General continued, and the apology that was offered in return left the bard stunned and off-balance.

Something in him, petty and wicked, twisted in protest at releasing the grudge he had been bearing. It was a comfortable thing by now, well-worn and close-held, and Jigano drew in a slow breath as he marshaled his strength. Amalia's eyes and Kiada's smile. Rory's huff of exasperation and Isuma's confusion. Be better, she had told him, and he finally had reason to beyond his own guilt and demons. He exhaled the breath he had been holding, and with it he expelled the lingering resentment that the blight had feasted so eagerly on.

Or at least, it was a start in doing so.

"Forgiven," he said quietly, refraining from a third bow but offering a nod of his head instead.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Grudges; Deimos knew about resentments and piques, the way they held and knotted and gnarled, their purposes sometimes melded and molded straight into vengeance. How many times had he committed to those felled nuances, to the twist and turn of bitterness, curling them into knives and daggers, instigating, invoking, and incensing the rest of the world to burn with him? The Aurora Basin had sometimes been his inferno, feeding the flames of their disastrous wake, of their havoc-wreaking collisions, wild with the potential of uprooting anything and everything that had dared to scorch them. They’d reached across voids and plucked at heartstrings, at limbs, at bodies, at kingdoms, until they thought they’d had their fill – only for it to surge again and again, a never-ending reel of enemies and adversaries howling at the door, and their wolfish, rapacious edges seething into the maelstrom. But that wasn’t what was happening here – the implications he wasn’t courageous enough, wasn’t strong enough, were nettles and thorns barbed and twisted back into his ribs – and it might have made him far, far worse in his protective spheres and hovering, striving to put and place himself before allies, comrades, and loved ones in attempt to guard. Were they enough to wage war, to continue and escalate the fissure between him and the Sage? Or was it mere irritation, proclamations of his weaknesses, when he knew valor and strength weren’t contortions of his faults? There were far more that Jigano could have picked – he’d just attempted to segment and sever the few virtues Deimos actually held. Which was why the monolith expressed, accepted - he wasn’t sure how to ascertain forgiveness, had little experience in it, beyond Rexanna and her sojourns. The bard was not the Penumbra; they had enough trials and tribulations between them, mistakes and mishaps, floundering and fumbling motions split and spilt along Fae woods, Spire intonations, and the pulses of the bakery’s basement. There were also the moments and sentiments of the thorns, of the rage, within clutched roses and planting reverberations, but he didn’t mention those – not now. He didn’t seek to stab at the tenuous. That he was forgiven was new and foreign too, causing a movement away from the door, and back to the table, maneuvering pieces of armor around in case the Sage required space or deigned to sit. He gave the other man a firm nod in the quiet, the uncertainty brandished hard; never had a way with words, once he’d stoked the edges of war, bloodshed, and death. “Kiada told me you were going with her during LongNight.” So they could hover there instead, with his stalwart nature still remaining, but potentially concocting it along a different interval. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Awkward? Oh yes, very much so. But it was not as awkward as it could have been had one or both of them descended to frosty silences or thorny jabs. Really the whole thing was going far better than Jigano had any right to expect. Of course, once apologies had been extended and accepted it might have fallen into uncertain silence, and the bard might have retreated back into the storm with his mission... well, not complete, but at least well-begun. Trying to push a conversation with Deimos did not seem wise if the General was not ready for it, and Jigano was prepared to give them both some time and space to get used to the shift in the balance between them.

It was Deimos who spoke next, however, offering a statement that might have been an invitation, and Jigano drew in a breath of the warm air inside the house and followed the General further into his abode, nodding soberly. "Yes. Ludo told her I would be needed for the task ahead, and I will do everything I can to help her with it." He paused by the table, looking down at the pieces of armor on it with a flicker of a smile of old familiarity. He hadn't worn armor since coming through the portal, his mithral chain shirt with its protective enchantments lost in the transition, along with all the rest of his magical items and attributes. He hovered as Deimos did, not sitting while the General stood, hoping only to not step on any fresh toes in the wake of their recent rebuilding of truce.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

For some imperceptible reason, it was easier for him to converse about Kiada’s intended quest and LongNight, rather than meander and roam around the disastrous wake of their previous words. Despite his misgivings about the entire thing, Ru’in’s lost, lingering soul, meant to be snatched and then slain, the potential pitfalls of LongNight itself, he’d begun to accept the idea of her merely walking out into the void with just Jigano – the distrust not so readily beneath his skin any longer. It was more or less the ruminations of monsters, demons, and death; the girl had always been strong, resolute, adamant, and tenacious, had survived yesteryear’s LongNight (though he wasn’t sure he’d consider it successful; she’d gained Auni but Isla had died in the transaction), and the spiraling weight of ominous loss that stung and nettled at him. But he wasn’t allowed to clutch or grasp or hover over the people he cherished, her expression had said as much, and so he was stuck, for the time being, with feral sighs and disapproving glares. “What are you supposed to do?” Deimos tilted his head again, more curiosity than anything else, tone deep and flat, not giving away the inflection of anything other than mere inquiry. Then his eyes went to the argent chain mail and metallic pieces he’d already been preparing. Zuriel snorted from somewhere by the hearth, some rampant disapproval of his next intentions coaxing at their bond, but he ignored it. “Do you need anything?” He paused, uncertain of Jigano’s preference in munitions, other than a rapier or staff, pondering over what would be a necessity for capturing entities – even those well known. “I made Kiada armor and weapons.” The Sword made no mention of the vast collection of knives, daggers, swords, and cutlasses along the walls behind him, or within the many drawers; outnumbering eating cutlery by a massive amount. The Sage could likely have his pick, or he could make something, carve it out of enchantments all over again. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

It was the question that had launched previous interrogations, sharp words and wounded egos, insult taken and exasperation given. Something in Jigano bristled, deep and dark and petty, and for a moment he wrestled with it, outwardly serene but inwardly railing against how little Deimos's apology had meant when he promptly went back to his old ways.

But there was genuine curiosity in his tone, and Jigano had been vague in his own answer, assuming Kiada had told the General all. She had never walked beside him on a moonless night, however, and the one time she had found him calling souls they had both been too blighted to bother with explanations. So the bard drew in a slow, deep breath, settling himself as best he could before he gave his host a nod. "A year ago I was given a song," he said solemnly. "Ludo's Song, to call lost souls. This summer I bargained with the masked god for the right to offer mortal assistance in his rounds, to go where they could not to retrieve souls that had wandered too far. I undertook a quest and was in turn given a special Lantern to catch and keep souls until they could be returned to Mort, to be used in conjunction with the Song. Together, they will hopefully call Ru'in to us, and capture his soul once Kiada defeats what has become of his body." Any more than that, he did not know. Quests given by gods could be strange things, filled with danger but also rewards.

The offer of support was as unexpected as it was welcome, Jigano arching a pale brow at the General in surprise but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Deimos and Kiada had a special bond, that much he had witnessed. That the big man would want her protected to the best of Jigano's ability was something the bard could appreciate, and he nodded slowly. "I haven't worn armor since I came to Caido," he admitted, voicing his thoughts from earlier. "My old armor was enchanted to be light and silent, stronger than steel but flexible chain. My rapier, too, was once enchanted to discharge electricity when it struck..." He trailed off, shaking his head as he smiled wryly at lost treasures, never to be reclaimed. "Caido has taught me that I relied too heavily on magic that I took for granted." Not that he wouldn't like to rely on such things again, but unless a god granted him a treasure or Remi made him a magical munition he was unlikely to see their like anytime soon.

"Something to strike from a distance with might suit me better," he said thoughtfully instead, turning to more practical matters and the well-crafted and delightful items he had seen Deimos create before. "A crossbow, perhaps, if you have any. I've done enough work on the farm that cocking one will be much easier now, I think." Easy to load and aim and fire, and packing enough punch to get through most armor at close or even medium range. It didn't have the distance of a longbow, but then, he didn't think he'd need it since he'd be close enough to support Kiada and protect her as necessary. "And... a shield, to defend her with."

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

If the inquiry felt like an echo of their strangled, suffocating past, then that was more on Jigano’s thoughts and irritation; Deimos displayed nothing of outward exasperation and a building, rising temper. There was no wrath or abhorrence sizzling on his tongue. There was no warped presence of his molten infernos, the thawing of ice and the rapacious, emboldened sear of fire. If anything was exhibited, it was curiosity, blue eyes neither narrowed or widened, but steadfast in their foundations, in the way his machinating mind worked, coiled, and contorted. Kiada had been vague in her insinuations and descriptions of her quest, likely leaving details and particulars out to leave him in the dust or not to grow in consternation, apprehension, or overprotective veils; so he listened as he paced over to the hearth, Zuriel obliging him with a nod and a narrowed stare at the bard, crouching and poking at the fire, unsettling some of the logs so they drifted down in a heap of embers, catching flame again. Given a song almost sounded odd, peculiar, but here, in the winds of Caido, where gods lurked in mysterious, enigmatic ways, perhaps strains and refrains were more than just lyrics and stanzas, tunes and harmonies. It held power, Ludo’s, and his gaze swung back to the Sage as he described the purpose, offering his mortal assistance, a quest and given a lantern to catch and capture souls, returning to death. In all of this, the monolith was silent, coming to understand the role the other man would play – keeper of the entity while Kiada was the slayer. He proffered naught on the subject of reaping presences already thought lost; of all those he’d maimed along the way, of the desolation and expanse, of what it would take to consign oblivion to something, someone, cherished. So he nodded, a notion of comprehension in the abyss; eyes staring back at the fire, before rising again at Jigano’s next set of words. They’d had enchanted armor in Helovia too – Deimos had never worn much of it. His frame spoke those stories, scars and lines, traces of brutality, barbarity returned upon his adversaries. War was war, invasions were invasions, and sometimes there was no time to suit himself up for the inevitable swing of a knife, dagger, or sword; Caido didn’t lend him as much strength or power, so he might make do the next time they came into battle, into the unknown. A thought in the back of his mind, saved and savored for upcoming vitriol. Relying on magic was a thing here too – those hissed at for being Abandoned wanted for their abilities just the same. “You are welcome to any of the armor there,” pointing at the pile he’d already begun on the table – if Jigano was inclined. There was bound to be something that fit him, and if not, the Sword could make adjustments. He listened to the next motions – distances, a favoring towards archery with more automated contortions – the beast didn’t have any, preferring the longbow, but while Jigano could root through the chainmail and metal pieces, he could oblige making the munitions. His palms were drawn together and then maneuvered outward, the same gilded glow produced between them as before, the golden shape becoming more and more tangible by the seconds. Therein, produced quickly, swiftly, was a copper-hued crossbow, the mechanism for loading, drawing back, and firing all contained. He handed it to the bard, and then set about contorting a quiver of arrows, and a shield too, artifacts and emblems crafted with his careful, quiet predilection, portions of ivory foxes and pale ravens melded down at the bottom, hidden, tucked away. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Deimos took the bard's answer and gave little back in way of reaction or expression to tell Jigano how the other man felt about it. It was as frustrating as always, but it was the General's way, and there was a certain reassurance in knowing that some things weren't going to change. Fires were stoked, unicorns were nodded to, and through it all the other man absorbed Jigano's words like a sponge. At least no further doubts were forthcoming. Perhaps because it was Kiada's quest and not his, or perhaps because it had been given by a god. Or perhaps because Deimos was willing to trust in the preparations and skills of the two who would be facing the night together. It was so hard to tell with the stoic mountain of a man, but the offer of armor was kindly made, and Jigano nodded gravely in acceptance.

"Thank you," he returned before focusing his attention more firmly on the treasures in metal and leather laid out on the table. Heavier armor would only slow him down when his greatest defense was his speed, but there were pieces that had been crafted to be both light and strong, and he choose a pair of bracers. A glance back showed the Sword hard at work with his magic, coaxing nothingness into form and function, beauty and lethality, elegance and sturdy simplicity to withstand the rigors of the combat to come. A crossbow in copper hues that struck highlights from the bard's golden-brown skin. He accepted it for the purpose of admiring it, much as he had appreciated the basket that Deimos had once made for him. "It's beautiful," he murmured, peering at the workmanship of the mechanisms and the strength of the string.

He had come bearing apologies, and he would be leaving bearing gifts. It seemed to be a very solid sort of positive reinforcement for his decision, though he didn't realize it in the moment. Instead he continued to sift through the allotments of armor, seeking some other part or piece that he could use to defend himself from monstrous claws with, while keeping an eye slanted towards the mystical creation occurring so nearby.

A gorget of thin leather overlaid with gleaming plates of steel to protect his neck and throat, and offer a little coverage of his chest and spine as well was chosen, and by then Deimos looked to be adding finishing touches to the shield. "An artist as well as a warrior?" he asked with a smile as he rejoined the General, hooking the crossbow to his belt and trying on the bracers as he spoke to check for fit and comfort. "If only things would be peaceful enough to let you focus on that aspect of your craft for awhile."

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

It was odd to hear the Sage’s praises, after they’d gone so long without either saying anything to one another, after coiling and contorting in different directions after Zariah’s dramatics, after short, minute reigns, after blight spirals and this bizarre aftermath. “You are welcome,” he shrugged, not certain on how to accept them again. His eyes maneuvered to the defensive measures the other man had taken – lighter pieces, where one could move beneath its strength and accord. It made sense for the bard’s build, for whatever may lay ahead. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfires too slow, too encumbered, too overwhelmed by the weight of existence. The Sword didn’t expect the next set of nuances, and upon completion of the shield, arched his brow at the insinuation. An artist? Perhaps – in a way – if the battlefield was his canvas, his blade a brushstroke, the lines and hues blended together by blood. He’d been too immersed and endeavored into war drums and a call to arms to ever harpoon or hover in those leagues of creativity. It hadn’t even been a thought. The little sketches, the little outlines, he placed upon his crafts were merely symbolic ventures, a way to display and orchestrate possession, the instruments theirs: like Kiada’s daggers, etched and sketched in fire, in flames, that once riddled up her spine and whittled the spirit of animals, like Amalia’s shield, adorned and enameled with stars, stars, stars, like Remi’s dagger, the hilt morphed and altered into a unicorn. He wasn’t even certain if Jigano was merely joking; a way to rattle and riddle him out of his reticent portions. Peaceful enough. The last time they’d had any repose had been at Fiat Lux, between dancing and singing and mischievous antics; and even then, it had been brutally scattered when Fae snatched at those he’d devoted himself to. “Hardly.” He snorted, maneuvering the rest of the armor out of the way, so there was room for either sitting on a chair or leaning against the table. “I much prefer the sword.” An oeuvre, a masterpiece, of death and desecration – favored skill and talent well before any other prowess. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Hands full of gifts when he had only come to offer an apology and try to start smoothing things out between them, Jigano still felt too awkward to sit when Deimos remained standing. He settled instead for leaning comfortably against the table, hiding a smile as the General denied his artistry with a single word and an eloquent snort. Perhaps he didn't see it as such, but the little personal touches that he added to each creation were not crudely done. They were painstakingly visualized and imprinted with care, elegant ornaments that replaced the simpler names that he might have carved upon his conjurations instead.

If he didn't want to see it, though, the bard was hardly going to be the one to convince him of the talents he displayed and then denied. So he simply nodded, lips quirking a little at the mention of swords. "A straightforward means of dealing with problems," he agreed. "There is much to be said for the honesty and directness of it." He had preferred magic to the blade, but for those times when magic failed he had still learned the nuances of the rapier so that he could help his companions when the time came to fight. He was not a warrior-born like Deimos seemed to be - sprung from his mother's womb fully-formed with a sword in one hand and a stoic expression beneath the beard on his newborn face, no doubt, simply a tinier version of the man now standing beside him (it was impossible to imagine Deimos as anything else, in the bard's experience with the General) - but he had spent half his life learning his chosen blade, once that took advantage of his speed while relying less heavily on his lacking strength.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

True – Deimos’ preference ran and rampaged towards the straightforward: intending to extinguish any threats or treachery launched upon those he trusted, protected, or devoted himself too. In those modicums, he could twist, turn, manipulate, devastate, and ruin, plot, scheme, nuance cloak and daggers, indifferent to how far he managed to entrench himself into immorality or depravity. Each action, each motion, was orchestrated for another; for while he could be avaricious, it was often painstakingly regarded for someone else’s motivations. His aspirations were built upon swords, shields, knives, and claws, a rapacious beast with an edge towards vehemence, violence, and vengeance – action, action, action, no need for words when calamity was in his hands, his lungs, his bones. Helovia had always known what he was coming for - them, any notion of an ominous, foreboding measure upon his people, a blade sinuously unwinding and unfurling before their eyes. Some hadn’t cared, waged war for war, some had drifted away on the intonation of his wrath, of his abhorrence, and some had fallen apart at the seams, at the lacerating edges shoved into their frames. So he nodded, agreeing with the bard’s terminology; eternally exploring his options after the initial modicums. Had the Sword known of the Sage’s thoughts towards his initial walks of life though, he’d have to deny some measures and imaginations. He had been a boy, running across the shoreline of the Moonlit Tides, sand between his toes, mischief in his veins, imploring, venturing, and exploring when he could, yearning to impress his father, striving to meet his mother’s expectations. Childhood had been fleeting only when he reached his teenage years, when strife meddled and molded its way into their homeland, when he lofted the same promises as the rest of his friends: to defend, to honor, to chase their way into glory. The beast had only hardened after crusades taught him loss; and then the world continued the same lines, sketches, and marks, etched across his skin of all the devotions that hadn’t mattered in the end. The thawing of his glacial walls merely took so much longer. “What do you prefer?” He harbored in return, an arch to his brow, a slight depth to his smile, joking mannerisms immersing while he wandered over to the counter, picking up the remains of lunch – he could surmise any amount of things towards Jigano’s inclinations (discourse, discourse, discourse, savoring whatever information he could gather, use, implement, and wield, a knife in its own measures). For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate