DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
In some ways, it was defiance, subversion, a hint of infamy and treachery against those so set against wielders of magic and enchantments; to continue their way into learning arts. They’d been born into it, out of their control, and damned as soon as they took their first breath, so why continue to unravel? He’d honed far more skills here than he had in Helovia: life drain’s pulsing power accommodated by creation, and then fire, an outstretch of his father’s beacons, something familiar and twisted back like home. And while the heralds and their gods might not have liked it, they unfurled and prospered. “I have others,” he provided, placing the helmet within his bag for safe-keeping, before turning one of his palms upward, as if to face the sky. In the middle, a flame erupted, bright and blistering and beatific in its sensation – an unfurling in his veins of yesteryears, and then former seasons, monsters in its distortion. It extended into various heights, as if leaping and bounding for the infernal extent of power and precision, before folding back into his palm, disappearing, lingering only for a moment. He gave no demonstration of the pulse and pervading of life drain – something felt, not seen, not heard. As for the questions about the armory, about the militia, he remained very careful, secluded, guarded. Were she a citizen of the Grounds, he might not have been so reserved. But she lived beneath Zariah’s wake, and frankly, any information passed to the Merciless wouldn’t work in their favor. “Enough,” lacking a smirk or smile, because it was a bald-faced lie, but his features betrayed nothing of the sort. They’d never have enough for all the demons in the night, for all the enemies and adversaries longing to bang down their doors. But he’d do what he could, recruit and serve, patrol and punish, train and wield, defend until his dying breath.
No preference on a knife meant he was free to create whatever he wished, settling into a shrug while listening to her predilections. More of someone who snagged and took what was offered, not a scavenger, but opportunistic. Deimos accepted the notion with a nod, hands glowing once more on the edges and fringes of contortion and creation, a neat little dagger taking shape while he answered her question. “Besides my magic, the sword.” He had proficiency in a multitude of other weapons, but the feeling of cutting, ripping, and tearing one’s opponent apart had a satisfying plunge to it. Eventually, between conversation, the etchings and form of the dagger had come to fruition: curlicues of frost billowing on its sanction, the hue of silver and argent, as if dipped in portions of ivory – reminders and memories of a time where he’d lived amongst and midst mountains too. Then he extended it to her without a word.
Unite and spread the heart apart
