DEIMOS
Little hints of nothing: Deimos wouldn’t know what to expect out of a healing position. He had Zuriel for any soothing, mending properties, and Helovia had plenty of those in their nursing hierarchy, mending his lacerations from battle back together again. Scars upon scars, lines and strands indicating how he’d fought and survived. How he hadn’t perished. How he’d tried to survive and ensure their kingdom continued to thrive.
He didn’t know what he was doing now. At least Loren had something to dig himself into, some essence that kept him tied and tethered to the world.
The wind lifted him up, above goose feathers, along quandaries and sea sails, listening to the question, to the polite, noble schemes skimming over the breeze. There was no right answer to it; not when Loren knew well and understood the way the Hollowed Grounds worked: for every monumental, successful moment, there were hundreds of maiming others carving it from the inside out. Chaotic. Tragic. A sigh. Normal.
He didn’t know what he was doing now. At least Loren had something to dig himself into, some essence that kept him tied and tethered to the world.
The wind lifted him up, above goose feathers, along quandaries and sea sails, listening to the question, to the polite, noble schemes skimming over the breeze. There was no right answer to it; not when Loren knew well and understood the way the Hollowed Grounds worked: for every monumental, successful moment, there were hundreds of maiming others carving it from the inside out. Chaotic. Tragic. A sigh. Normal.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
