[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Not bad caused him to merely cease for a moment, stare at the basket coming to life between golden entanglements of magic, and then continue to work at a slower pace, rippling and undulating each woven thread with sharpened accord. Zuriel remained an ever watchful, noble figure cut out of the oasis strands, seemingly deliberating, pondering, her next movement – eyeing the dragon with a fonder declaration of a friendly nicker for fellow beasts and creatures, narrowing her gaze at Adam. Deimos made no mention of his awareness towards Adam’s existence around LongHeat – he’d been the one to pull him out of the Fae’s pit, spiraling along the outer rims of the item, a scattering of something close to ornate ice, and if he could, he would’ve rendered a slight chill in its adornments. His glance only lifted from his contortions when Adam made to sit down, when the inquiry sputtered along the long grasses; an arch to his brow. He considered refusing the man out of principle, pettiness, and spite. He’d been an outrageous, asinine fool towards Amalia during LongNight, despite calling her a friend, and the potential for vengeance settled in his soul. The Reaper would have ignored Adam’s query, turned completely away, but the Sword contemplated and deliberated on drawn lines, comeuppances, and soulless enterprises. The Reaper had held grudges, first impressions, and judgments until the day he died, perished, no great loss. The Sword strived to hold things in balance, together, as best he could. Sometimes it didn’t matter at all. Why should I coiled behind his jaw, threatening to unfold and blistered, rip, tear. Why not settled in there too, mostly supplied by the unicorn staring at him from across the way – a regal tilt to her head, the haughty amusement somewhere in the fold. His teeth clicked together and he thought about snarling, about recoiling, about declining and spurning and just leaving. A heavy sigh swept through his chest, and he thought of Amalia; perhaps the only reason the man hadn’t been stabbed where he stood. “I make mine with creation magic.” No sense in learning how to weave fronds and ferns and anything else when he could simply cause it to exist. “I can do the same for yours.”

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