Deimos
Safety in other things, away from emotional, vulnerable footfalls and precipices, things he avoided, things he circumvented, managed to drive deep into his bones for a later moment, for a future juncture, alone, alone, alone. She must’ve recognized the way in which he turned off its routes and alleys, succumbing to the inevitable fissure of evasion; falling apart not in his goals, not in his aspirations, not when there were so many other ambitions to achieve. He listened instead, a habitual routine, keeper of secrets and knives, extending them in machinations or never at all, lodged in the webbed portions of his skull, where a thousand other recollections and memories roamed. Her dream of opening a shop, of creating glass, structures, vessels, weapons (his favorite), and clothing, was a reminder of days entrenched in more repose than vitriol; when they’d all managed to barely make some of those things, extending the notion of fabric as trading mechanisms, of striving to achieve goals of furtive tents and soundless voids. A smile, unbidden, a little rugged, a little boyish, a little mixed and mired in-between, rooted itself along his mouth, tilting his head, sipping down some tea before responding. “I can help, if you want.” Content to oblige and assist, to create and apply his efforts into the task – another rumination curling into his thoughts, sparked by recent movements. “You are always welcome to join the Artisan’s Guild. Or the militia.” Or both. And since he led the company of concocters and soldiers, now – and permitted that certain idea to curl and coil down the length of his shoulders – it’d be an easy acceptance. He wisely made no comment on the latter compliment – fashion not being his forte (more akin to armor, lengths of chainmail, which bracers paired well for which battle).
He nodded at her proffering towards the cleanup, but a portion of him figured he’d simply waltz out to the grounds one day and take care of it, stare into the brink of failure and ruin, of bizarre faith in LongNight’s convictions when he truly should have known better. They’d been prepared. They’d been ready. They’d been fervent, but so had the stretch of disaster, mayhem, and bedlam. So had the monsters. So had the demons. So had everything else in those bungled, wrecked evenings.
Cera’s lack of abhorrence, wrath, or contempt sent towards anyone from the Basin, including the Reaper turend Sword, had been startling. Instead of bristling with primordial, arcane brutality, instead of blending back into the age-old heralds of destruction, calamity, and violence, they’d merely commiserated and extended titles, fanfare, twist of daggers, and Midas’s name clinging to the brambles, the branches. “Perhaps.” A slight chuckle formed form his mouth, a little thorned, a little nettled, rough along the edges because it was dark and likely not meant to be so amusing. “It turns out he did not look upon Midas favorably either.” One less strike against them from a benevolent party – if it mattered anymore. As for at rest, at peace, maybe he was, but the unraveling of second chances scorched and flailed – because if he; machinating, calculating, vehement, bestial, and barbaric King, had the opportunity to renew his life, why not the beneficent? Or did they always seem to get the short end of the stick, accustomed to losing, failure, and defeat, at the hands of other, mercurial, avaricious cretins? “He would deserve it,” the Sword uttered in agreement, but couldn’t say the same for himself.
He nodded at her proffering towards the cleanup, but a portion of him figured he’d simply waltz out to the grounds one day and take care of it, stare into the brink of failure and ruin, of bizarre faith in LongNight’s convictions when he truly should have known better. They’d been prepared. They’d been ready. They’d been fervent, but so had the stretch of disaster, mayhem, and bedlam. So had the monsters. So had the demons. So had everything else in those bungled, wrecked evenings.
Cera’s lack of abhorrence, wrath, or contempt sent towards anyone from the Basin, including the Reaper turend Sword, had been startling. Instead of bristling with primordial, arcane brutality, instead of blending back into the age-old heralds of destruction, calamity, and violence, they’d merely commiserated and extended titles, fanfare, twist of daggers, and Midas’s name clinging to the brambles, the branches. “Perhaps.” A slight chuckle formed form his mouth, a little thorned, a little nettled, rough along the edges because it was dark and likely not meant to be so amusing. “It turns out he did not look upon Midas favorably either.” One less strike against them from a benevolent party – if it mattered anymore. As for at rest, at peace, maybe he was, but the unraveling of second chances scorched and flailed – because if he; machinating, calculating, vehement, bestial, and barbaric King, had the opportunity to renew his life, why not the beneficent? Or did they always seem to get the short end of the stick, accustomed to losing, failure, and defeat, at the hands of other, mercurial, avaricious cretins? “He would deserve it,” the Sword uttered in agreement, but couldn’t say the same for himself.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
