DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Deimos’s outlook on Abandoned contortions had been usually forthright: he was who he was, magic sustained, bristling, and brewing since the day he was born, no control over its fruition, but damned proud of his contortion and unleashing of its imminent potency. It was how he’d lived and breathed, life drain an essential portion to his presence, to his soul, but never considered if it painted a target on his back, if others snarled, or raised their hackles due to the incantations wielded and molded in his veins. Once the Reaper – a title, a status, caught and tied to him for eternity, in the art of demise, in the fluidity of devastation and ruin. Things had altered and changed; the effects of his enchantments more or less for the good and consideration of the population – for protection, for upheaval. He’d seen Loren’s post, and since they all seemed to circumvent and orbit around one another’s machinations, calculations, and actions, he sought to return the favor. His clothes were typical working fabric, already utilized and warped from this morning’s activities of hunting, piling wood, and training; appearing along the Fields, snorting at Jigano’s presence already there. He didn’t recognize or know the other man, sidling close to Loren, causing the slightest look to Jigano – simply by way of amusement and curiosity. The bard had already spoken the inquiry he’d deigned to ask – so the Sword settled for a nod towards the summoner, and waited for their tasks.
