fracture patterns

Deimos Zuriel remained absorbed in the images prospered and painted along the puddles; he didn’t bother guessing what enamored her, not bothering to lean over the anomalies and quandaries for the moment. Instead, his attention snapped, riveted, caught, and tangled on the edges of his name sliding through the eaves, piercing eyes drawn directly to the source. “Ronin,” he answered in reply – the tone flat, body drawn into a contorted range of taut, rigid formations. Stilled, quiet, like a predator surveying another, pondering over his next set of actions. They were within a wild, vibrant range: anything from unholy violence and vitriol, to nothing at all, letting the void, the events, pass through. Before the edges and fringes of Fiat Lux, he’d never had any issue with Ronin. They’d trained together. Held various conversations (for as long as Deimos could). Rebelled against tyrannical leaders. Except he’d seen the temple. Except he’d had to pick up Amalia’s crumpled body, coming apart at the seams because initially, he believed she was dead. He understood how and why it happened. Grief was overwhelming, overbearing, a smothering, strangling, asphyxiating weight. He hadn’t lost a daughter, but loved ones, family, companions, had all been claimed into demise, even as he fought for them, shielded them, strived to protect, to defend. But there was also a massive portion to him that had been allowed to grow wild and savage in Helovia; the Reaper crawling in his veins just as much as the Sword. Perhaps it was the latter then, permitted to resurface, as he walked forward, marching towards the Dark Star. When he thought himself at a reasonable space between, he quickly swung back his arm, then launched a fist forward, intending to punch the other man directly in the face. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime