DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
While Deimos had attended other guilds, the Artist’s Sanctuary hadn’t been one of them. Despite Jigano’s insinuation of his more creative interpretations and talents, the Sword most often applied them on the battlefield, cloaking the world with a canvas of blood and ichor, of devastation, of ruin, of malice rippling with conviction. Truly, the only other time he’d even ventured to her prior residence had been to plan her wedding, and something felt a little remiss in all of that; the rest of the void clambering at his doorstep, a peculiar notion that he’d be the one they orbited around. On an inward shrug, he paid it no further mind, senses riveting to her comings and goings. So he watched, waited, and listened for directions, standing wildly along unknown tapestries and worlds, nodding as she opened the door, curiosity compelling him forward with the tank. Wandering within, his eyes traced over exactly what he’d thought to find: paints, brushes, fabric strewn about, naught out of the ordinary in house sanctioned and meant for expression and aesthetics. Which was too bad, because he’d thought this would be an opportunity to tease.Despite her blindness, she escorted him along with ease, and he trusted in the motions, the Attuned nature of his eyes still glancing, taking larger steps over things that might’ve been in the way. Then he placed the quieted worm and its container down where she wished. Then Deimos pondered over the next intervals, brushing his hands together, wiping off traces of mud and muck once more. “When do you plan to go?” Were there other tasks required of her? Did she need anything else from him?
