[seasonal event] wasted faith

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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