who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos’ restraint and forbearance came with rising tides and mercurial ambitions; a patient, stoic, nonchalant exterior for most, reserved and quiet, hushed and irreverent. Adversaries and enemies represented a different outlook: seditious forbiddings ensconced under an apathetic gaze, singular warnings amidst the foreboding, foreshadowed treachery, the calculated dominions, the cold, callous wakes. In between were the muddled apertures, the opportunities for his curiosity to be sated, for another to irritate or amuse, to find themselves punctured, pierced, lacerated, or forgotten, a chilling fate spelled out in his rigid nonchalance.
For all the inquiries extended, Chulane was polite, or savvy enough, to exchange acknowledgments; not entitled to the information, but grateful for it nonetheless. The Sword could only impart so much knowledge on the deities and heralds though; and a restless edge conformed to his bones, to the carnivore indulgences bunching, coiling, and contorting amongst muscles. The length of his gaze shifted along the empty corridors, ignoring the beams of luminary light, head turning down the rampaging paths, turned over and over by the treads of animals and monsters alike.
If the leopard had been satisfied, Deimos might’ve continued, wandering, wandering, wandering, the outset of dreams and reality either urging him onward or returning him home. The latter caused him to swivel his cranium back in the other creature’s direction; no emotion, no semblance indicated. The glacial eyes narrowed for a moment, lost in thought, before maneuvering down the trail, familiar in its wake. You may come see for yourself. It was up to Chulane if he wanted to follow or not, and the midnight form of the hound twisted into twilight eaves and midnight oils, blending, merging with shadow and darkness; only waiting for the slightest moment and movement.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
