DEIMOS
This wasn’t the first time he’d been openly mocked or chided, but the notion of them being compared to bunnies, puppies, or even chiseled as adorable actually made his spine crawl. He loosened an involuntary shudder through his form, shaking his head, petulant and childish, a return to some semblance of youthfulness, amusement, and diversions they hadn’t procured in ages. Perhaps this was primordial and age-old in his bones too, the spiraling configurations of some life found in loss and devastation, capable of returning back to these thresholds as the Sword, but never the Reaper. She couldn’t see his openly mocking face, the wrinkled nose brought back into fruition, along with curled lips as if they were raised hackles, mouth parted as if courting and curling words but silent just the same. Zuriel lifted her head at his antics, arching an imperial brow, and he shrugged, not ashamed.
Glad you are happy was such a phrase he never thought he’d hear or have flickered over in his direction – the Lord of the Basin’s contentment and satisfaction had been riddled in melees and bloodshed, how far, how fast, he could drive his blade through an enemy’s chest and watch them fall at his feet, how many plots they could unravel, how much bedlam they could ensue. The General of the Hollowed Grounds had found rapture and reverence and despite it being a bizarre rumination, after everything he’d done, after everything he’d concocted and schemed, that he even had a semblance of those things, and actively worked for them, was overwhelming. Moments he held with grasping claws and avaricious plumes; but something to savor, something to safe, something to hold. “Thank you,” he murmured, at her fanged smile, losing his derisive overtures, returning to less Cheshire, more boyish, mischief prowling behind his eyes.
His gaze did roll at the last statement – because no, he could control himself in public and he definitely hadn’t been blushing (maybe smiling; a hint), another snort brandished, unmuffled. He didn’t even deign to answer that one, moving on and forward, away from the teasing. “All right. Attuned abilities or mountains.”
Glad you are happy was such a phrase he never thought he’d hear or have flickered over in his direction – the Lord of the Basin’s contentment and satisfaction had been riddled in melees and bloodshed, how far, how fast, he could drive his blade through an enemy’s chest and watch them fall at his feet, how many plots they could unravel, how much bedlam they could ensue. The General of the Hollowed Grounds had found rapture and reverence and despite it being a bizarre rumination, after everything he’d done, after everything he’d concocted and schemed, that he even had a semblance of those things, and actively worked for them, was overwhelming. Moments he held with grasping claws and avaricious plumes; but something to savor, something to safe, something to hold. “Thank you,” he murmured, at her fanged smile, losing his derisive overtures, returning to less Cheshire, more boyish, mischief prowling behind his eyes.
His gaze did roll at the last statement – because no, he could control himself in public and he definitely hadn’t been blushing (maybe smiling; a hint), another snort brandished, unmuffled. He didn’t even deign to answer that one, moving on and forward, away from the teasing. “All right. Attuned abilities or mountains.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
