hands off

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Despite the lack of humor surrounding the latest misfortunes, the simple action of the hand moving around issued a snort from the Sword, but not much more – as if he hadn’t meant for the sound to even escape from his stoic form. Perhaps the limb had assisted in the bedlam, in the chaos, in the rush of melees and destruction – some grave honor in the depiction of its damaged ligaments and forlorn existence. While Amun took and inspected the artificial limb, Zuriel watched, her portion complete as Deimos unwound the wrapping again, checking over the trickle of life force, replacing with fresh bandages and ample padding. He glanced over at the inquiry, raising the man’s arm so he could bear witness while the Sword took back the prosthetic for the demonstration. Gently, for all his size and capable brutality, he slid the end, cuffed with its own softened lining, over the bandages, tinkering back and forth with the fit. Then for its use, he modeled movements on quiet rumbles. “Like this,” showcasing the digits, the grasps, the grips. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be better than naught at all. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace