DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The initial comment earned naught more than a stoic, nonchalant countenance and a shrug to his shoulders while he tread water once more, dragging back loose curls of his hair that’d escaped his haphazard bun. The ivory dragon from the caves hadn’t seem interested in devouring them – just wanting them to leave, with or without their souls, their figures, their lives intact. He made no other response, the inclinations still a little too raw, uncertain when they wouldn’t be any longer. After the next disaster? After some other traumatic thing occurred?
Perhaps the Sage continued the puns just to alleviate the melancholy and anguish threatening to brim back to the surface, and this time Deimos grimaced, a furrow to his brows. “It sunk,” he snorted, one more shake to his head, half-tempted to toss an enchanted spout of water Jigano’s way and seeing if he’d survive, prevail, through the potency.
At least he’d distracted the Lorekeeper with knowledge, sagacity, and wisdom, prepared to hear the torrent of information coming his way. He’d seen the aforementioned mantas, recently too, as they crept along below his feet, but he hadn’t known about their properties, or that they could fly. “Interesting.” Which meant they were likely far more valuable dead than alive, and his gaze flickered back to the rush of rays swimming in the fathoms and depths, pondering the notions to himself. Pink dolphins, Amalia’s latest acquired shift, encantados, pods existing elsewhere. The last though caused an arch to his brow. “Merfolk.” Because of course there were merfolk; stories and legends from other worlds likely to collide here, no longer so foolish as to believe in everything from other lands spiraling here: each with their own brand of terror and treachery. The simple word was the only indication for Jigano to proceed, his gaze already dropping back to the veneer, the sea, and its hazardous melee of secrets.
Perhaps the Sage continued the puns just to alleviate the melancholy and anguish threatening to brim back to the surface, and this time Deimos grimaced, a furrow to his brows. “It sunk,” he snorted, one more shake to his head, half-tempted to toss an enchanted spout of water Jigano’s way and seeing if he’d survive, prevail, through the potency.
At least he’d distracted the Lorekeeper with knowledge, sagacity, and wisdom, prepared to hear the torrent of information coming his way. He’d seen the aforementioned mantas, recently too, as they crept along below his feet, but he hadn’t known about their properties, or that they could fly. “Interesting.” Which meant they were likely far more valuable dead than alive, and his gaze flickered back to the rush of rays swimming in the fathoms and depths, pondering the notions to himself. Pink dolphins, Amalia’s latest acquired shift, encantados, pods existing elsewhere. The last though caused an arch to his brow. “Merfolk.” Because of course there were merfolk; stories and legends from other worlds likely to collide here, no longer so foolish as to believe in everything from other lands spiraling here: each with their own brand of terror and treachery. The simple word was the only indication for Jigano to proceed, his gaze already dropping back to the veneer, the sea, and its hazardous melee of secrets.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
