hands off

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He wasn’t surprised Amun continued to talk despite the Sword’s need for concentration, drawing them over to a smaller rock he could place the hand upon, ensure close proximity, sharpness, a keen weight into his arms and muscles. The inquiries made sense anyway, given the amount of harm about to come his way. “I could probably make it out of any material, within reason.” Was this guy the sort to want something constructed entirely of gold? The distraction and image might’ve conjured a snort, if his mood was better, if the world was brighter. “It is a replacement limb, made to look like your hand. Depending on what you want, I can ensure some digits can open, close, and hold.” It wouldn’t be the Voice’s technology, likely far more suitable for this sort of exchange, but he could proffer as much as possible. If it didn’t work, he could remake it, or perhaps Amun could return to his goddess later on. Chop away ensued, and Zuriel hovered nearby once more, a stance away, and on the airs of previous diversions, while he lifted his blade, while it sang and snapped through the air, intending to slash and cut through bone, muscle, tissue, flesh, or whatever else made up an Ascended’s form, the Sword spoke. “Can you tell me what happened at the Temple?” He considered Amun fairly impartial, someone who must’ve experienced the chaotic sway, before portions fell, and crushed. The unicorn maneuvered forward, her healing abilities at the ready once everything was severed and ravaged. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace