The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sascha’s contentment floated and pervaded through the training grounds; enough for even the General, with the aura of menace, malice, and melancholy rampaging through him, to unburden the slightest amount. He stared out over the earth, barely a sigh winding through his lungs, eyes following over targets, over arrows pressed into their bullseyes, the cheeky, devilish assortment of a grin daring to peek through. Glad and satisfied that there were hidden depths and talents amongst those who’d come to find the Hollowed Grounds home, that there was more to life than just constant breaking and rebuilding. He didn’t expect the inquiry though, spun back into his formidable, familiar accord of quiet and hushed platitudes, the ruminations rushing along his skull. His gaze settled back over to Sascha, a quirked brow settled in place. A favored weapon, if he could only choose one. It required far more consideration than he’d care to admit, considering the vast array of weaponry, munitions, and skills at his disposal: how to layer and lacquer desecration, death, last, unsettled heartbeats in chests, withering, decaying breaths within shuddering lungs. So he went to the most familiar, the things he’d had since childhood. “My magic, probably.” Transgressions, iniquity, and ruin in the palm of his hand, in the pulse of his veins, in the strength and conviction of his malice. “Then the sword.” Like titles and namesakes, the press of blades across an adversary's throat. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace