DEIMOS
Sometimes Deimos forgot how much of multiple earths and worlds he’d seen, and others had not. His battlefield expanse, expertise, and encroaching politics had permitted him to wander into the midst of lands far beyond Isilme or his beloved mountains. Yes, he admitted at first, then sent an image much like he’d done before with the Aurora Basin across their connection – only this one was sand, shoal, crag, pictures and fragments he could recall and remember through the haze of warped memories and different lives. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time, as they coasted and drifted amongst the dark, amongst demons, but it was better than forgetting all over again. Cera would’ve appreciated the gesture. The Dragon’s Throat he murmured along the attuned bond, keeping himself calm and composed, as they alighted between threats and demons, ominous, forbearing, forewarning signs.
They descended, further and further until the body was clear, the remains known, and any composure he had left was suddenly stretched thin, tight and taut, wound and rigid. Out of habit, he wanted to clench his jaw, yearned to escape the suffocating noose of these ruminations, these bitter, entangled, rancorous efforts – but he couldn’t. He breathed and listened instead, his eyes trained on Cera, who had always been far greater than this battered, bloodied corpse. What an ending he wanted to grimace, wanted to throttle, wanted to shake something to its core. An undeserved finality, for things that were once golden.
The implications within the alchemist’s proclamations were concise and succinct; the General remained as a guard, stalwart on wings and feathers, a firm nod given in acceptance, in knowing exactly what he was required to do. He was fortifications, he was a monolith, and sometimes he was that living, breathing weapon, the Reaper far more than a sword. His gaze riveted and segmented to the abyss, to the void, watching, waiting, for any signs of upheaval, sedition, crawling cretins, fiendish demolition, and then followed Remi on his flightpath when he’d retrieved the son of the desert.
They descended, further and further until the body was clear, the remains known, and any composure he had left was suddenly stretched thin, tight and taut, wound and rigid. Out of habit, he wanted to clench his jaw, yearned to escape the suffocating noose of these ruminations, these bitter, entangled, rancorous efforts – but he couldn’t. He breathed and listened instead, his eyes trained on Cera, who had always been far greater than this battered, bloodied corpse. What an ending he wanted to grimace, wanted to throttle, wanted to shake something to its core. An undeserved finality, for things that were once golden.
The implications within the alchemist’s proclamations were concise and succinct; the General remained as a guard, stalwart on wings and feathers, a firm nod given in acceptance, in knowing exactly what he was required to do. He was fortifications, he was a monolith, and sometimes he was that living, breathing weapon, the Reaper far more than a sword. His gaze riveted and segmented to the abyss, to the void, watching, waiting, for any signs of upheaval, sedition, crawling cretins, fiendish demolition, and then followed Remi on his flightpath when he’d retrieved the son of the desert.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
