fracture patterns

Deimos The Sword watched in taciturn silence as Zuriel’s healing ministrations presided; the glow of her horn extending into light, fragments, and mending precision, before she stepped back and away, her job complete. She left the Dark Star with an unsettling, narrowed gaze, that might have been reminiscent of something like Deimos’ own, but with a more arrogant, superior indication attached, wandering back to the closest ripple of water, and following along others. The man sighed though, jaw clenched together, shut tight, at Ronin’s words, providing a shrug as way of explanation. He’d received some form of vengeance and rebuttal, and nothing more deigned to leave his mouth in response. He could’ve enacted a series of puncturing, piercing decibels: I thought she was dead included, but those moments were gone. And she wasn’t. Amalia was safe and secure, for those few seconds, before they all raced off to some other poorly-planned venture. He granted Ronin a nod, and naught else. Not until the water inquiry, which only earned him a snort (his puddle jumping days were long gone; chiseled away in childhood) and meager clarification. “They show images.” His glance shifted to one nearby, a distinction of fire curling in its midst, infernal and devouring, not unlike the one he’d taken, and then unleashed, upon the Monster Hunter’s Guild. “I am not certain of their meaning.” Whether or not they were the future, the past, the present, or simply nothing at all. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime