Hurt so Good

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The Sword had no doubt that Jigano would utilize the incantations to full capacity – and if he’d had them before, then perhaps he was no worse for wear, despite being under a goddess’s ire and fury. Despite the stigma of Outlander and Abandoned, Deimos had born no shame in demonstrating his abilities, in ensuring they went into some amount of prosperity and assistance in the world – hardly any had bothered rankling their hackles or wrinkling their noses at him, at least not in front of his face. As far as differences, that much he could understand and comprehend too. “I had more power in Helovia. It took some time here to even match it.” A consideration in how strength waxed and waned, how they all started weaker, and grew, carried on, the determination a fuel, the fortitude and endurance a quality, perhaps one of his few virtues, ensuring he continued on. “Healing will always be useful,” he added with a nod, even if he couldn’t benefit from its mending intonations. With the amount of trials, tribulations, danger, and hostility they often found themselves within, one more mender was a boon, rather than some punishment from Safrin. The beast didn’t ask any further on prices though, as it seemed to be a touchier, stickier subject, and his attention turned back to the war-torn inhabitants. Straw and grass were reconfigured in his grasp, maneuvering them into reattaching limbs and body parts that hadn’t been blown apart by their flying, ferocious stones. Deimos had no experience along the subject of Frey, and based on stories, never had any intention of doing so, glancing up from the pieces to glance at the bard briefly. “Why not Ludo?” Hadn’t Jigano been more suited in that herald’s jurisdiction, recalling, remembering the soul lantern at LongNight’s clutches. Apparently Rory was also not a subject to meander through, arching his brow for a singular moment, before casting his entire gaze back down, the humor gone and vanquished. He didn’t know anything of Rory’s family, had never thought to ask of who or what lingered along the farm’s threshold. “Understandable,” was all he mustered, setting aside one target newly assembled, before taking another in his hands and continuing the pattern. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate