[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace He waited for something: a veiled insult perhaps, given Adam’s knack for jokes and remarks, and he’d either absorb or bear it. The compliment surprised him, and he struggled, strived, not to show it, features rendered nonchalant again, except for the tiniest of smiles peeking through. “Thank you.” Cool had never been something he’d attempted to embody, magic or otherwise; cold, aloof, and intimidating so everyone left him the hell alone had worked for a significant amount of time before Caido. Now they all seemed to accept his constant modes of silence, quiet, hushed platitudes, and action over eloquence. The cheeky grin at can’t be that bad caused a sharpening, a narrowing of his eyes. “I was tempted during LongNight.” To slay him, to render him completely, utterly diminished on the Monster Hunter Guild’s floor. He could’ve tossed him out with the demons, left him amongst the fiends and heathens. The only thing that had saved Adam was the very person whom he’d mocked, ridiculed, and spun through torrents of embarrassment and harassment. Remaining calm and composed, the warning immersed itself in the breadths of stillness, in an ominous motion, in the piercing, puncturing fathoms of his eyes. Do not do that again: strictly to Amalia, drugs or public shaming otherwise. But the subject altered back upon the gods, and he shrugged, the uncertainty of it all rippling through his shoulders. “Tolerates, maybe.” Half a grin lodged somewhere, used to being unworthy and undeserving of their attention, no matter which world he’d been wandering and warring through. He presumed any forbearance from the goddess to himself was mostly due to Amalia’s presence and influence; otherwise he’d just be another ignored Abandoned, continuing to detach himself from deities and their ramparts. He eyed the two baskets side by side: one handmade, the other orchestrated by magic, both highlights of subsequent skills. Deimos wouldn’t have been able to braid and plait the fronds in such a way – it would’ve been a clumsy, misshapen mess. Adam’s couldn’t have notched his together with enchantments or invocations; not the right race for the undertaking. “A tie,” Deimos acknowledged and confirmed, arch to his brow signifying nothing more.

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