The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps it was a surprise; but the beast shrugged, no shame in the admittance of preferences and loyalties. It didn’t mean he tried and instigated with the insurrection coiled within his frame first, but the potential was always there. “I had magic first.” An integral contortion and framework to his life, crafted into the Reaper at a tender, young age when brutality quietly seared between his veins. Swordsmanship came well after, along soldier marches and coiled ethers of potential, foreboding massacres; more than one way to maim and destroy a man. As far as the cheer, Deimos just remained steadfast in its wake, shaking his head, shoulders relaxed, listening to Sascha’s insinuations. Healing would always be a necessity in these trying days, where disasters unraveled and unfurled without any semblance of warning, or picked apart, fumbled at the seams, until everything in its wake was bent and broken. LongNight was expected: Fiat Lux hadn’t been. Sascha would likely be able to apply himself no matter where he went, presuming the amount of danger and treachery everyone found themselves immersed within. “I suppose,” his eyes went off across the grounds. “But healers are always a necessity.” Likely an eternal struggle, between all their shambles of trials and tribulations. However, the more Sascha interacted, meandered, and explored, he’d likely gain new aptitudes, new strengths. He wouldn’t need to choose between the two. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace