[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace The first inquiry gave him pause again, mulling and musing over the foundations of both worlds he’d once solidified his treachery, his brutality, and his convictions within. What constituted a lot? The soldier of the Edge had pierced his blade into flesh of invaders, and it still hadn’t mattered how many he’d wounded, how many he’d murdered, how many he’d try to tear apart – they’d lost. The General of the Basin had swept his way into the Dragon’s Throat and claimed small victories, while their DarkEmpress had fallen apart and fellow warriors fragmented on the front lines – they’d lost. The King of the Auroras had rampaged into the midst of the Hidden Falls, no longer so subversive, no secret, charging amongst his fury – they’d won. Everything else had been combined into challenges and barbarity, stealing back those who’d been taken from them, allowing his flesh, his bones, his soul to be skewered a thousand times over for those he’d sworn to protect. That had just been in Helovia. Isilme was another series of circumstances, of sieges and assaults amongst the youth, their celebrating glee at tiny, minute conquests dying off when reality pierced them all, and their friends, their comrades, fell at their sides. “Yes,” was the simplistic answer, eyes gazing upon his basket, as if memorizing the lines like they were his scars, woven and webbed. “Four,” came after. Four that mattered, four that honed, four that still twisted into his gut like knives and daggers. Rigidly sticking to laws wasn’t in his livelihood either – but such had been the world of unattainable, unreachable designs – never showing his hand too soon, never allowing realms and kingdoms know enough until it was too late. His heart was clustered and coiled in rebellion, his mind echoing amidst irreverence, sedition, and insurrection – it was how he’d eventually harnessed a reputation in Helovia. It was how he’d spread his malice, his menace. It was how he’d forged vengeance. Even here and now, amongst Caido, they’d driven their grinding gears into bakery basements, striving, attempting, to fight back against tyrants. Same thresholds, same echoes, same fabrications – his gaze lifted briefly to square itself on Adam, on those he’d found, despite transitions of time and space. “Somewhat. Helovia was built upon kingdoms, alliances, deceit, and chaos. We had gods, monsters, and wanderers.” Shifting seasons, swift changes, diseases, despair, pieces and fragments of hope. “And yours?”

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ADAM

Four wars was indeed what Adam would count as a lot of wars. There had only been the one in his world, though admittedly it had stretched on for years and years, the beginning of it even visible at the time of his birth - he had not known a time without some kind of conflict occurring in not-so-far-off fields. "...How many did your side win?" Maybe it was a simplistic question, but he was curious how lucky Deimos had been.

His basket gained taller and taller sides, eventually got to a point where he could have tied it off, if he'd wanted to, but he kept adding to it, creating a narrow shape with some different patterns woven into the edges. "That's all kinda vague. I mean how similar is it to live in? You know, the weather, the food. The way people speak. All that kinda stuff." Those were the things he noticed over big concepts like 'deceit' or 'chaos'.

"As for me, this place is wayyyy different. Everyone talks weird, they're all so serious, and the food is so bland! I miss spice. There was this one spice-rubbed meat they sold in the market in Akkarain..." Adam turned his eyes to the heavens and shook his head, an adoring smile on his face, as if praising the impossible memory of it's flavour. "Everyone dresses different, too. All boring colours and so covered up. Back where I was from there was more of a sense of style." As unbelievable as it had to be to Caido residents, Adam's outfit had not been too outlandish in his home.

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Perhaps, if it could be considered lucky or fortunate, their wars hadn’t been cataclysms for decades. Instead they were spiraling masses of hatred and vehemence, galvanized by those rising to instigating challenges and wild provocations – leading further and further into vengeance and recoil, down the mustered holes of cycles of revenge and petty tactics. He wasn’t certain if it was something to be proud of, and the lines, the cuts, the scars were all borne across his figure, inward and outward; each a trial, each a tribulation, each an oath and ultimatum until it ceased and desisted. “One,” and it hadn’t even really mattered – not to them, not to the Basin, already instilled in its might by then. The ones that had conjured and condoned had been before: a loss of their homeland, a split of their resistance to show menace and malice, power and precision, signifying nothing but the feral, savage intervals they contained from within. Even then, his first action as king, because it’d been one of the defeats that led him to crowns, had been to assist in establishing some armistice. His tone was neither proud or ignited; simplistic in its rumbling, in its ricocheting, feats of fortitude and survival, learning from their pinnacles, their scrapes, their bruises. Vague – and he might’ve been intentional about that, not slipping into details or particulars because some amount of it hurt. His gaze lifted from his basket, the final, finishing touches established on its front, pondering the depths of the insides, resting them on the oasis beyond, on Zuriel’s frame, on the way things once were and could never be again. “We had similar weather. Bland food,” a snort unraveled, because food had been the last thing on their minds – war and unbalancing each other’s sovereignties, toppling foes, pressing their dominance and supremacy into the world. “Some wore plainer clothes. Some were extravagant.” Bright hues and colors, like ornamental designs of look at me. His had never been, an obvious statement, preferring darker hues, blending into traces of shadows and igniting his presence in formidable, foreboding statures. “Style?” It earned an arched brow, some semblance of humor, as if asking for elaboration out of mere curiosity.

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ADAM

That Deimos had only won one out of four wars he'd been in was not necessarily a comment on his ability as a soldier (after all, wars were fought with more than one man) but the fact did still make Adam wonder how suited the man was to his general position. Still, one war was more than Adam had ever won, so he wouldn't point it out, as it would likely just piss Deimos off and make the man silent again.

Looking about to see if there was any grass about of a differing colour so he could make a nice rim for his basket, he listened to Deimos' typically short response to his questions.

The lone question he got in return, the one word 'style?'...Adam couldn't tell if it was a playful insult or not. With a slightly bemused smile on his lips, he replied: "Yeah, y'know, everyone cared about how they looked. Even just people selling in the market would wear nice capes with embroidery on or...like, look." Leaning to the side, he pulled one of his guns out of the holster, and making sure the safety was on, passed it to Deimos.

"Personally engraved." Deimos would see in the handle of the gun the black metal had been cut into the pattern of winding branches and leaves, with little gems acting as flowers. The letters A.P. curled around the bottom.

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Wars weren’t one individual, wars weren’t hellbent on singular mayhem, but a combined, brutal, barbaric force. While Deimos had won a majority of his own battles, head-to-head, sword-to-sword, the same couldn’t be said for their smaller army against bands of united fronts and allies. Had he of been capable of dragging them all to victory, he would have, beyond blood, sweat, carnage, and upheaval, splitting them across calamity with iron fists and molten exploits. Persevere, endure, survive had been the mantra, but also the repercussions, because he’d lived in and out of loss, defeat, and anguish, pushed and pushed and pushed until he was naught more than a weapon himself, stone-faced and detached, emboldened and brutal. If any were disappointed in his militia performances here, if he wasn’t strong enough, capable enough, hellbent enough, then they were welcome to shatter him against the rocks, and find another to take his place. It’d been done in Helovia time and time again; echoes of transgressions hollowed and carved out across meetings, along broken shambles and chaotic wings – Caido much the same in its regard. He didn’t fear it. Deimos had always known exactly who he was, and his capabilities, his efforts, his prowess. But he listened to Adam’s quips about style; memories flickering through attention-seeking individuals amongst past worlds and lives: Thranduil instantly coming to mind with fanciful pelts and capes. “We had some,” yearning to be noticed, craving to be worshiped. The Reaper had been neither. Then the other man was pulling something aside, and the Sword arched a brow, a reserved slant of curiosity, Zuriel somewhere hovering nearby, potentially poised for the same inquisition. Embroidery was a known notion, and so was engraving (he’d done the same for a multitude of people and weaponry, insignias, carvings, sketches embedded into pommels or hilts to ensure some fanciful adornment, but also ownership). One hand left his basket handles, now fully fledged and formed, to hold something Adam seemed to honor. He inspected it, noting the A.P. on the bottom, the winding patterns detailed into the metal surface, boughs and leaves, twisting and turning into an intricate design, gems embedded into the folds of flowers. A description of the same weaponry rekindled in his mind, the pondering announced aloud. “Is this a gun?” The workings of the mechanism seemed simple, despite its lack of blade, a trigger point cast, a place where the munition would come flying out, ignited and sent out into the earth for damage and death.

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ADAM

"And clearly, it rubbed off on you." Adam couldn't help the tiny quip, but it was said gentler than before, with a quiet sort of hesitation. It wasn't as if Deimos was a particular fashion disaster, anyway - he just did not dress with the same suggestive flair that Adam himself did, which was probably for the best. With the Reaper's muscles, he didn't know if he'd be able to stand up to the competition.

Carefully he watched Deimos handle his pistol, with a face not unlike a mother watching someone hold her child. That he knew what it was, knew the word 'gun'...well, that made Deimos rather special. Surprised, Adam nodded. "Yeah! Most people here don't know that - you seen one before? I can show you how it works, if you want. I got a fuckload of ammo nowadays." Since Lucas had died and so graciously left Adam his replicator box (read: Adam had stolen the replicator box) he'd been able to produce all the bullets he'd wanted, yet had had pitifully little excuse to use them.

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace The beast arched a brow at the obvious, sarcastic, facetious designation, casually glancing down at his clothing, shrugging. They’d never signified anything but a working man’s distinction: meant for traversing, hunting, mauling, fighting, and pummeling; anything else wouldn’t have suited. A bright, ostentatious glamor wasn’t him (especially if a majority of the time he deigned to cloak himself amongst shadows), nor were anything substantial or expensive – with the amount of garb and garments he ruined (bloodied, ripped, torn), it would’ve been wasteful anyway. Amalia had managed to wrangle him into some formal pieces for weddings - and that mode of thought instantly stung, and he scraped away from it quickly. “Not everyone can have your flair,” was a grumbling remark, smirk indented on the corners of his mouth, meant to be taken however Adam wished. But the gun was more of a conversation piece – half-tempted as he was to play around with it just to wind Adam up, just to irritate and vex, but the General knew better than to utilize a foreign, unknown weapon as a toy. He handled it with great care, though not as much reverence and worship as he might bestow upon a favored sword, but understood the model carried a great potential for menace and malice amongst its metal columns. “I have not. Sunjata mentioned you had one.” They didn’t have such mechanisms in his fluid line of histories: more apt to scale with arrows, with catapults, with blades, with fury. He was curious about how it functioned though, considered the capabilities, how to better arm his militia. “Go ahead,” handing it back over, gaze quietly intrigued.

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ADAM

It seemed he had actually made some progress with Deimos, because the man returned his jibe with another; his delivery was still rather growly, but Adam could have sworn it was a joke. In response he grinned and flicked the lapels of his shirt, pushed a hand through his hair.

He appreciated the respect that Deimos showed for his pistol. Adam's guns were precious to him because of the cost that went into acquiring them, but more than that too: they had always been a bit of insurance, especially here where they were an unknown element in a lot of combat. He was not the strongest nor the most muscular man, but he had at his hips two devices that guaranteed he could defend himself if needed.

Really, they were more a defensive visual than anything else - he rarely fired and when he did, he aimed not to kill. That didn't mean it wasn't fun though; with a nod he took the gun back from Deimos and flicked the safety off, scrambled to get on his feet then looked over the Oasis. "Alright, see that tree there?" He squinted as he aimed, holding his gun steady, then the shot rang out without any warning - and the bark of the tree across the Oasis splintered.

"Yes!!" Adam threw his fist up into the air. "Still got it."

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Deimos rarely received any demonstration of other weaponry: born to a majority of munitions, experience harpooned in the depths of his memories, in the scattering of nightmares, in the eclipsing of war cries and their ilk. He was usually the one showing, casting, or indicating techniques, how to utilize, how to incorporate, how to bend and brutalize within a moment. So it was rather appealing to sit back for a moment and not, though he would make no mention of this to any living soul, his eyes perusing, watching, an avid study and scholar, tilting his head in accord with obvious curiosity. Insight into this sort of machinery was noteworthy because it had potential for more ruin, for more defensive procedures – things that threatened, things that mauled. He nodded his assent in the direction of Adam’s aforementioned tree, gaze drifting back to witness how he maneuvered and used the gun. A trigger, finger descending. And nothing else? The fire, bang, and shot sent the briefest shudder into his skin, not prepared for the ricochet and sound. Swords weren’t silent, not when grating metal against other surfaces like bones or flesh, but didn’t resound or echo in such a way. His stare peeled away to where the bark had splintered. “A weapon for distance,” he murmured, still intrigued. “And closer contact? What is the range?” His catapult might have been able to conjure more damage, but sometimes its accuracy left a lot to be desired, based on recent tests and assaults on their targets.

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ADAM

Adam didn't see Deimos shudder in response to the gun's noise, too busy grinning over his own accuracy in hitting his target. Once he was satisfied with his shot he turned back to Deimos, automatically flicking the safety latch on his gun back. While Adam rarely did a lot of things textbook-accurate, he had learnt how to fire a gun from a very strict teacher and the lessons had simply dissolved into his instincts.

"If you shoot someone or something close, it'll still work. Hell, I mean..." Adam knelt and held his gun to the ground, pressing it close enough to the dirt to make a small indent with the shaft. "Say this was someone's head. It'd be totally splintered if I shot. ...So...you gotta be careful with 'em." Pulling up the pistol to wipe up the end on his shirt, he holstered it then picked back up his basket, adding in a rim to mark the top.

As for range... "Err...pistol like this, probably about a hundred yards? There's ones with longer range too, but I never really needed 'em. I was only working on the roads with carriages and stuff, so..." Mostly, he'd needed to shoot wheels or windows about fifty yards ahead if anything. "You need to learn how to aim, though. It's harder than it looks - I only got good after a lotta years of practice."

He bounced his basket in his hands, smiling at it. Perhaps it wasn't beautiful, but it was strong. Placing it down as he got longer strands with which to make a handle, he continued to speak: "I guess it's not so impressive here when there's magic and stuff too, though. I could absolutely still get fucked by someone shooting fireballs or some shit. You've got magic, right?"

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace The description was vivid enough: he’d done the same with swords, with axes, or anything else he could apply to an adversary when they were barreling down on him, intending to do the same. He listened, imagining, deciphering, tilting his head in perusal and study. “Would it be similar to aiming with a bow?” That training had taken some time; and they were dealing with strings instead of metal and machinery, triggers and whatever other contraptions were assorted inside. The notions thereafter though, of it not being as formidable as magic, made him consider. Where guns could likely be applied with a fair amount of distance and accuracy, they might still not be swift enough for the clambering of enchantments and invocations. Those benedictions were in their souls, in their blood, in their veins, called instantly, quickly; the draining notions he’d contained since he was a child flared at the first thought of their appearance, instinctively trained, honed, and gathered at his behest. The Sword’s eyes glanced at Adam’s basket as he wound finishing touches, then back to his own, the frigid ambience still clear and precise: like winter, like the Aurora Basin, like things he couldn’t have any longer. “I do.” Magic: for which the gods damned them, but something he utilized every day of his life. Adam might have seen portions of it from LongNight – the wake of mastered fire (perhaps a gift from his father, or maybe just mere manifestations of this world) contorting and rippling, then destroying the guild entirely, consuming monsters and timber alike. “And you are Attuned. Which god granted it to you?” Curiosity extended for its sake.

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ADAM

"Uuuhhh..." Adam was not very good with a bow. Melita had helped him learn the basics, but he still struggled to be consistently good with the one she'd given him; practice that wasn't immediately easy was difficult for him to keep up, so he had admittedly not done much shooting. "Not really? It's got more force to it and you gotta focus different. It's hard to explain."

The handle to his basket began to appear, thick and with a plaited pattern, attaching to his basket with a simple knot that Adam did without thinking, fingers knowing the way.

Deimos answered his question in a predictably short way, so Adam rephrased it to be what he had actually wanted to ask: "Could you show me some?" Magic was still something of a spectacle to him, no matter how many times he saw it done, saw great feats accomplished. "Oh, Safrin helped me out. I don't really know why...? I went to give her a drink and I guess she liked that so much she just made me a bird snake guy." He shrugged.

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace No other nuances on aiming except that it was different, and he must not have understood or comprehended it, having never held or wielded such a machine. He nearly asked if it held the magnitude of the catapult, or some other smaller forms of propulsion, like slingshots, but if the difficulty in explanations was already there, he didn’t feel the need to continue onwards into a scraping derision. So he nodded, accepting what he could from the demonstration. Could you show me some surprised him; though he wasn’t certain why, a knot in his chest at the thought of either being on display, or all the other nuances in his lifetimes where others had begged. Because of their innate curiosity. Because they’d wanted to stand close to flames and pretend they were stronger than the might, the power, the precision behind it, when they knew he wouldn’t unfurl it upon their presence (allies and comrades – adversaries and enemies were an entirely different story). Or they grew afraid, bewildered, standing back and away (and lords; sometimes he’d craved for the way their skin ran cold and their eyes widened, wanting the fear, the intimidation, the rancor gliding back over his surface). Normally, he simply utilized them when necessary: the primordial fathoms of the shadows unleashed from his essence, silent and deadly, stoked into draining essences and eldritch abominations, instilled within him since he was a child, the rush of fire and fervor, or creation, adorned in its gilded glow. Other moments had been shrouded in training propositions, instigating and unraveling them to pit strength against strength. But in the midst of silence, he agreed and complied: turning one palm towards the sun, and permitting the slip of power to rush through fingers, skin, and flesh: fire rising from calloused conflagrations, neither embers nor cinders, but all inferno properties, stretching and stretching, inspired to reach the heavens or oblivion, given the option, before dancing and scalding across the tips of his digits, and rushing back into his hold. His father had committed the same action so many times – playing, pretending, as they walked amongst shoal and surf, as the moonlit tides rushed to greet them, as currents promised predilection, and the world hadn’t seemed so vast, so daunting. “I also have life drain,” which he doubted Adam would want to bear witness upon – not something one could see, only feel. Better subjects were with Attuned machinations, listening with a quiet snort as Safrin orchestrated another role – though it sounded as if Adam’s was far less lethal than his own transformation – the way the celestials favored, preferred others. Not a surprise or a shock. “Congratulations.” All because he offered a drink; a grumble of amusement fanning from somewhere in his chest. “She dropped me from the sky when I asked for mine.” A ghost of a smile lifted there, as if he hadn’t been fully prepared to die again, rampaging through the wind and wraiths, while phantoms called out to him and told him to fly.

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ADAM

Adam, as Deimos considered his request, worked on the finishing touches to his basket, putting in a few decorative knots made of a thinner, smaller grass at each end of the handle. As if to test it, he picked up some stones and seeds on the ground and tossed them inside, lifting it up and swinging it about in the air. Well. It wasn't beautiful, but it was certainly functional; what his mother would have called 'useful enough, ain't need to be pretty'.

Honestly, he expecting Deimos to deny him, so when the flames began to burst from his hand Adam dropped the basket and clapped his hands together with joy, immediately grinning as he saw the magic. "Ooooooh. Does it make your hand feel like it's burning, when you do that?" It seemed magic brought out an almost childish glee and curiosity to Adam.

Life Drain. Adam had never heard of this particular spell, though he supposed he could work out what it was from the name. "Do you use that one much? ...Does it drain away all of someone's life?" If Deimos could simply kill with a touch, maybe he needed to rethink teasing him so often.

"Jeez...Pet said she'd drowned him or some shit. I dunno why I got mine so easy..." He wasn't trying to brag - he really was lost as to why he'd been given the gift of his shifts so simply. It wasn't as if he was particularly devout.

Lifting up his basket to show Deimos, he twirled it around in his fingers. "So, what d'ya think?"

A wasted youth is better by far

Then a wise and productive old age

Base Code by Sky!