DEIMOS
Upon their release, back out into the world, away from the void, away from the slaughter, away from the eternity of the spinning night, Deimos regathered his supplies back at his home. There had been a monumental effort to not delve straight into anarchy or angst, into frustration or ire, because gods, how he’d wanted to simply sink into the shadows and lance, lacerate his bones into some brooding contortion. But it was always for later, for later, for later, a pattern, a refrain, repeated again and again. He permitted himself a short respite, ensured the residence was still standing strong and mighty, and then collected whatever items he’d need for the impending journey back to the settlements, back to the ruins, back to ash and soot and cinders.The wagon he pulled was full of shovels, gloves, and empty space, intending to remove all the other demised contortions of the Monster Hunter’s Guild; like the remains, like the entrails, like a scorched, plunged battlefield, with nothing left but the bare bones, the dried sentiments, the things that refused to break. Zuriel walked nearby, offering nothing but a silent constituent, comrade, as they made their way back to the shell, to the husk –
His eyes drifted over the scene, his chest incapable of refusing the sigh brindling and bristling there. For some reason, he hoped it’d all been some ridiculous nightmare – beyond the fire in his hands, the control in his measures, as he brought the entire thing crashing down upon monsters, upon demons, upon infidels, as the rest of them traversed their way to other sanctuaries and refuges. He thought they’d been prepared. He thought they’d had a chance.
For a single, solitary second, he closed his eyes and inhaled, sharp and keen and blunt, remembering the varnish of smoke in his lungs, choking, heaving, desperate to rid himself of the poison while the walls of infernos scorched and seethed, at his command, at his demand. Then he drifted back to the wagon, grabbing hold of his gloves, his amends, his apologies, in the thickening silence, as he maneuvered towards the debris. Chunks of wood found their way to his hands, and he smothered some of the ones still smoldering, placing them within the threshold of the container, maneuvering back and forth in swift silence, enacting action, trying hard to sway away from the ruminations, the contemplations, burning just as brightly, just as vividly, against the back of his eyes.
{Open cleaning thread - cleaning up the remains of the MHG!}
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
