New Faces

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Zuriel was tempted to preen again at her name being called pretty – but then again, she was already far, far aware of its devoted, divine existence, so she merely sniffed and snorted in the air, meandering off to the side, as if to inspect the drawing but not enough to indicate her attention. Subtle, airy, ethereal, things of forest and earth, otherworldly connotations in her existence; Deimos arched a brow and continued to say nothing, only the lightest indication of bemusement coating over the lacquer of stoicism and reserve. The stranger made note of introducing themselves though, and his eyes slipped away from the unicorn’s antics and back to the artist, Oliver, and he committed it to memory, to machinations, to calculations whenever applicable or necessary. Getting a feel for things indicated some newly-forged Outlander, likely unsettled from portal and straight into LongNight’s reach; not an unfamiliar assertion, given how many of them had done the same the previous year, wandering straight into the midst of danger and treachery, a constant, consistent realm. He shrugged, other areas and networks, not relegated to either one thing or another. “There are the Loreseekers, Artisan’s Guild, Caido Medical College, and the Monster Hunter’s-,” he stopped there, the habit and routine of normalcy warping over his tongue. He’d burnt it down, after all. Taken it down – the fire searing on his hands, controlled, contorted, everything, everything, everything in his palms – And the glint of teeth, of claws, of talons. “You have options.” He considered instead, weighing out nothing else, inward irritation flicking through his chest, bounding against ribs and lungs. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace