DEIMOS
The Sword couldn’t acknowledge that he’d met Cera more than once either – but it’d been significant, to say the least, when the maned wolf had become a man known and revered for being one of the few great ones in their old land. The Dragon’s Throat had boasted warriors and legends, and Cera had been amongst them, renowned for his gilded potential, his glowing prowess, his kind, gentle heart – greater than the mountain occupants’ abhorrence, taste for vengeance, and all the other fickle things laid between. Deimos had expected some intonation of hatred for his form, for his presence, for the Reaper who’d led and instigated any number of upheavals and seditious intentions towards the sand, and Cera had greeted him with the same beneficence and compassion. It wasn’t just. Same, he rumbled, silent, strung voices in the dark. He belonged to the desert. As if that mattered; when he wouldn’t be able to see it again.
They drifted over settlements and stones, over darkened threads, over roaring demons. His eyes caught the fringes of the Rathskeller, the burning embers, the rush of heat and infernos; destroyed for the sake of protection, annihilation, or something else altogether. The beast didn’t ask. Decently, he responded to Remi’s inquiry, though his senses would likely be great improved in his tiger form, but the lack of flying would leave him wide-open to the barbaric seams below. He followed and circled too, sharp gaze tracing over the snow, over the ice, over the rime, looking for something other than smoldering ruins – remains, a form of a body left out in the cold.
The General could fathom why they’d done it. It’d been life or death, Cera’s already taken. It just didn’t feel right – and maybe it was only because he knew the being before life had been torn from his essence.
He caught sight of a figure that could’ve been some misshapen, mangled figure, and he nodded in its direction, circling above its fallen traces, the calculations coiling through their connection. There?
They drifted over settlements and stones, over darkened threads, over roaring demons. His eyes caught the fringes of the Rathskeller, the burning embers, the rush of heat and infernos; destroyed for the sake of protection, annihilation, or something else altogether. The beast didn’t ask. Decently, he responded to Remi’s inquiry, though his senses would likely be great improved in his tiger form, but the lack of flying would leave him wide-open to the barbaric seams below. He followed and circled too, sharp gaze tracing over the snow, over the ice, over the rime, looking for something other than smoldering ruins – remains, a form of a body left out in the cold.
The General could fathom why they’d done it. It’d been life or death, Cera’s already taken. It just didn’t feel right – and maybe it was only because he knew the being before life had been torn from his essence.
He caught sight of a figure that could’ve been some misshapen, mangled figure, and he nodded in its direction, circling above its fallen traces, the calculations coiling through their connection. There?
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
