DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
For this round of puns, Deimos looked almost physically pained – a brief countenance of false, feigned anguish furrowing and burrowing into his features, until he was once again forced to shake his head. The regular countenance of stoicism and some hint of a smile returned quickly, but the damage had already been done. “Not for that one.” Another snort; nostalgic reminders of another time and place where they all laughed and pandered more to the ridiculous; before abductions, before tyrants, before rampant, blistering death. And with brutality after brutality, he was never certain if they could drag it all back. He let the ruminations go on a heavier sigh, permitting it to slide and slice through the water, watching the ripple and churn.
Then there were Jigano’s other sagacities to consider. If the merfolk were anything like the Fae, then they wouldn’t want to know them anyway. “Someone will bombard them in the future.” Because that was always the way – their exploring, curious, inquiring noses always managing to render themselves where they weren’t wanted; first in the Greatwood, then Halo, then Torchline, until nearly everyone was an Outlander at some point, and the hisses, the sibilances, the insurrections all sounded alike.
The theory of them contorting and controlling the water made sense, considering their token environment. On those tangents, he lifted a few ripples of water, watching, witnessing, them sort themselves apart as little orbs drifting over the surface. Then he allowed them to plummet, sinking back down as if they’d never moved at all, returning back to their liquid haven. “We will just have to be careful.” Except no one ever really was; no matter what they did.
Then there were Jigano’s other sagacities to consider. If the merfolk were anything like the Fae, then they wouldn’t want to know them anyway. “Someone will bombard them in the future.” Because that was always the way – their exploring, curious, inquiring noses always managing to render themselves where they weren’t wanted; first in the Greatwood, then Halo, then Torchline, until nearly everyone was an Outlander at some point, and the hisses, the sibilances, the insurrections all sounded alike.
The theory of them contorting and controlling the water made sense, considering their token environment. On those tangents, he lifted a few ripples of water, watching, witnessing, them sort themselves apart as little orbs drifting over the surface. Then he allowed them to plummet, sinking back down as if they’d never moved at all, returning back to their liquid haven. “We will just have to be careful.” Except no one ever really was; no matter what they did.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
