legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
Deimos swallowed down the bile coating the back of his throat, down, down, down into the sanctions of his soul that held all the other memories bounding through his chest and ribs; no time to succumb, no time to process. His jaw clenched and he had no words, nothing else left, except inherent movements and motions, placing her down when and where she could stand, nodding to Hotaru, to keep the Harpy safe while Loren’s commands barked over the attuned connections, while the world rampaged and burned and seethed beneath their haughty overtures. They thought they’d be safe. They thought a festival would be fine. They’d planned and plotted and schemed for entertainment – and somehow thought they’d be able to savor it. The Sword ignored the twitch in his hands, the shudder of his irritation, exasperation, or the pain in his wounds, before moving on – not daring to look back because he couldn’t stand it anymore.
The old, familiar chant sprung up along his machinations. Not enough, not enough. Still, they threaded through people and stampedes, Zuriel at his side and trying to say something to him, but he was an onslaught, a savage swing to his pace and steps, threading their way across the field, adhering to Loren’s demands as the unicorn sought out anyone else requiring her aid. His gaze swung over individuals and almost didn’t see anything at all; naught registering in the haze, until they segmented upon Amalia, upon Remi, upon the efforts of so many bolstered around fallen alchemists, and – a child. Still and prone in Rexanna’s arms.
His hands glowed as he created and contorted, quickly, efficiently, still disregarding the torment in his own limbs, blood trickling down his palms as he worked, as stretchers appeared before him – wooden arms supplied, or wheels on the bottom, intending to be used for anyone needing to be taken out quickly. Moving towards Amalia, who appeared to be attempting to take Remi elsewhere, he handed one of them over, intending to provide support and assistance in getting or lifting the battered man on. Then his eyes swung back to hers, a be careful adorning through their connection, before he had to hasten off to find others; and it hurt. Everything hurt.
--
Zuriel is around the healers for anyone who requires more aid! Deimos has created some stretchers to help get the injured out!
The old, familiar chant sprung up along his machinations. Not enough, not enough. Still, they threaded through people and stampedes, Zuriel at his side and trying to say something to him, but he was an onslaught, a savage swing to his pace and steps, threading their way across the field, adhering to Loren’s demands as the unicorn sought out anyone else requiring her aid. His gaze swung over individuals and almost didn’t see anything at all; naught registering in the haze, until they segmented upon Amalia, upon Remi, upon the efforts of so many bolstered around fallen alchemists, and – a child. Still and prone in Rexanna’s arms.
His hands glowed as he created and contorted, quickly, efficiently, still disregarding the torment in his own limbs, blood trickling down his palms as he worked, as stretchers appeared before him – wooden arms supplied, or wheels on the bottom, intending to be used for anyone needing to be taken out quickly. Moving towards Amalia, who appeared to be attempting to take Remi elsewhere, he handed one of them over, intending to provide support and assistance in getting or lifting the battered man on. Then his eyes swung back to hers, a be careful adorning through their connection, before he had to hasten off to find others; and it hurt. Everything hurt.
--
Zuriel is around the healers for anyone who requires more aid! Deimos has created some stretchers to help get the injured out!
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
