who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos knew better than to hurl insults or forge into anger here; she had far more power, far more precision, than he ever would. Besides, the fiend had nothing to refute into those statements, had circled the same ferocity and veracity on his own within multiple occasions – surprised, however, when she seemed to either attempt at softening the blow or grant him the slightest clemency. His brow arched (but he wouldn't, didn't, ask), a slow, steady breath again in the echoes and fringes of things beyond his control – worlds filled with magic, expected through bloodline after bloodline, long instilled in his ancestry, fanning into the familiar whims of darkness, then creation, then fire. Born with the predilection, ensuring its use through warfare and insurgency – in Caido though, he’d altered its course.
The mention of the Voice caused him to narrow his eyes, but he didn’t rise to that particular bait either. He had no intention of going to her for much of anything; the last had only been to assist Rexanna – too much hatred and abhorrence towards the blight intervals, and the scrambling events thereafter. The reservations and nonchalance clung to his surface, and he nodded at the information, acknowledging he was always listening; observant in his silence.
Better things thereafter though, gifts and blessings for Amalia, moments forged for the future. He watched as the deity took what he proffering, asking over possibilities, conjectures. While he might have proclaimed an artifact contorted and manifested in power and prestige, that wasn’t the Shield: eternally grasping for existence and all its tethers, lines, and tracings, rather than corruption or condemnation. “Perhaps healing?” He paused, mulling over it again. “Something to do with preserving life.”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
