DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
“Magic,” he ascertained; inclining an arch to his brow at her inquiry. Perhaps it was a guarded notion, the way most Abandoned (Naturals anyway) hastened to hiding and sheltering their incantations, born into a world hostile towards those with such predilections. But where he’d been born and raised, they were expectations, passed down from bloodline to bloodline, coursing through veins, an anomaly to not possess such arts. He’d never backed off from utilizing the techniques, the fortitude, the mastery of his capabilities: too much inherent, instinctual notation in his movements, in his existence. Perhaps it’d been accepted though, as he bent and contorted and coiled for the masses in the Hollowed Grounds; as Deimos yielded to neither prejudice nor spite, going through the haze as he so often did, indifferent and nonchalant. “Life rarely is,” he shrugged, an undulation and chord of muscles maneuvering in their otherwise rigid contortions, hands coming to rest on the blade again, tucking it away, and then hastening off to the gilded effects in his palms once more. He’d be content to manipulate and craft while she wove the basket, back into relative silence, quiet concentration building and pluming between his melding, his molding. This time a helmet made an appearance along the unwinding, unfurling precision: made to match a certain chest-plate, fire emblazoned upon the sides, an entangling of antlers and horns embellishing the back and front. He shifted his head in study, eyes narrowing, before hastening a line down the middle, in case the future owner wanted to add some dramatics (as she was prone to do) along the center.
The Sword only inclined his attention back to Weaver on her third statement – the envious glance unfurling the barest hint of mischief in his features – recalling her preference towards knives. “I have made quite a few knives and daggers for the armory,” an invitation for her to meander there too – militia and warrior instincts honed. “What is your preference?” It wouldn’t take much for him to instill another stiletto, blade, or the rest of its ilk.
Unite and spread the heart apart
