When last Deimos had used his magic on Jigano it had been fierce, yes, but controlled. He had shown himself not only trustworthy in stopping when the bard yielded but capable of wielding that deadly force with a deft hand, leaching life slowly rather than tearing abruptly. It was that which Jigano sought. That control, and that comfort with the magic that swirled in his veins in a way that no Natural and few Outlanders could claim.
He was not going to ask Zariah, of course. That went without saying. Nor did he trust his power against the lick of flames or the lash of lightning. Truth be told there were few who had the power to do what he suggested, and though he trusted Remi he had already asked the alchemist enough in recent days. Loren was a possibility, but he knew the Launceleyn man less well than the General. For all that lay between them Jigano trusted to Deimos's honor.
And then there was the strange comfort of familiarity, since they had danced this waltz before and no one had died then.
He nodded and followed his host to the training grounds he had helped to clean and flatten - and de-wasp, never forget those tiny, evil bastards - quirking a brow at the mangled targets. They wouldn't need those today, however, and he followed further into the field, stopping at one edge and letting Deimos put whatever distance between them he needed for the limits of his magic. "I'm ready," the bard said, reaching for the thread of shining gold in his soul and plucking it gently as he drew the energy within him up through his feet to swirl in his chest, held and waiting. He wouldn't hesitate to sing out when he was ready to fall; indeed, usually the problem was getting him to stop talking.
He was not going to ask Zariah, of course. That went without saying. Nor did he trust his power against the lick of flames or the lash of lightning. Truth be told there were few who had the power to do what he suggested, and though he trusted Remi he had already asked the alchemist enough in recent days. Loren was a possibility, but he knew the Launceleyn man less well than the General. For all that lay between them Jigano trusted to Deimos's honor.
And then there was the strange comfort of familiarity, since they had danced this waltz before and no one had died then.
He nodded and followed his host to the training grounds he had helped to clean and flatten - and de-wasp, never forget those tiny, evil bastards - quirking a brow at the mangled targets. They wouldn't need those today, however, and he followed further into the field, stopping at one edge and letting Deimos put whatever distance between them he needed for the limits of his magic. "I'm ready," the bard said, reaching for the thread of shining gold in his soul and plucking it gently as he drew the energy within him up through his feet to swirl in his chest, held and waiting. He wouldn't hesitate to sing out when he was ready to fall; indeed, usually the problem was getting him to stop talking.
