[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Expectations were apparently going to be doused and torn apart today: no sooner had the fire burst from his palms, than did his eyes swing over to see a bright grin on Adam’s features, clapping, an enthusiastic form of approval. “Yes, but not uncomfortably.” Because it was a part of him, a figment of his soul and concoctions, the blood pooling and conspiring in the depths of his veins; and on a deeper level, perhaps a signature of his sire and everything else associated with worlds apart. Then he clenched his fist, and the cinders drew away entirely, back into his form, into his figure, to burst apart when necessary. The curiosity of the life drain made him only slightly apprehensive, expecting some other biting, tormenting thing. It’d been a part of him since he was born, a deeper level of his existence, a characterization as much as his clenched jaw or stoic features. “Not unless someone irritates me,” (or threatened one of his own; but perhaps this didn't need to be stated) came across on the fringes of a smug grin; partially teasing and taunting, intentionally striving to cause a reaction – provoking, goading, eyes meandering back to his basket then. Altered subjects brandished, away from enchantments and invocations, and he tilted his head minutely, gaze settling on the water too, muddled thoughts and machinations. Pet; ah, Peter – the other one uncomfortable in the midst of LongNight gatherings. He’d apparently gone the same route as Deimos in not being heavily approved of, just enough to warrant a new foundation to strength, but lacking in the kindness Accepted might have been granted. “The Old Gods do not look upon the Abandoned favorably.” A shrug to his shoulders; something he’d been told the moment he arrived, the primordial stories thick and polished with their myths of how the Voice had been amongst the magical, turned, and shifted upon them, rendering herself too high in their esteem, in procuring too much manifestation and power. It’d been an alteration from his previous worlds, where incantations were expected and accepted by every walk of life: running through their souls, their entities, passed on from generation to generation. He was a son of fire and water, descended from flames and waves; and had never been ashamed of it. Even now, no regrets, no rancor, no remorse. His asked opinion of Adam’s basket was surprising too, and his eyes roamed over the foundations, the fronds, the knots of grass, readily applied, formidable in its own right; hand-spun strength rather than Deimos’ contorted arrangements. “Proficient,” came on another ghost of a smile.

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