Before the storm

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