DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Deimos didn’t laugh or smile in the echoes of Loren’s own. Zariah had terrorized too many of his friends, family, and loved ones to warrant any semblance of amusement. She’d been a tyrant, gnashing her teeth and claws into whatever granules she could scrape up, orchestrating oppression with every single bloodied command. The fact she’d always been like that in some way, shape, or form didn’t lend much credence to her existence except more ire; naught she intended to overcome, wielding her dictator emblems and banners for as long as she pleased. It created unrest beneath its hinges, a seething, toiling mass under its fringes. The same thing would likely happen to Halo, with her regards and schemes. He gave naught to the insinuation of the Ascended’s reign coming to a close, or anyone else’s support. While the cat on his shoulder batted at his hair, his arms folded, an expression of distaste as the topic spiraled. Used to calculating, deciphering the odds, meticulously planning for motions, for maneuvers, that anyone and everyone could embody, the perilous uncertainty here irked and nettled. “Then perhaps we demand it.” Or they wouldn’t have to; but a mob’s mentality was easily moved and swayed.
The final inquiry left him with a furrowed brow, tilting his head, wondering why on earth Loren and Amalia had been discussing him ruling over anything. At least the Shield knew where he stood. He’d crossed those bridges. He’d held those crowns and scepters and bore down walls, rendered himself an absolute fortification. He’d dragged himself through politics and diplomacies. He’d strived and struggled and persecuted. There were some things he’d do all over again; but monarchy wasn’t one of them. “I am suitable in my current position.” General. Militia. Warfare. Arms and munitions, ready and eager for the slaughter, for the havoc, for the mayhem. Not the trap of reigning.
Unite and spread the heart apart
