[seasonal event] wasted faith

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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