intention erased

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame For some reason, Deimos hadn’t expected the question. Temptation to withdraw, to escape into shells, armaments, voids, veils, and armed reticence plagued against his mind, a recoil, a contortion of distortion. A few already knew the story, and some had lived it, watching as he immersed himself into exhaustion, into positions where his body simply couldn’t hold it together any longer, and he’d perished beside the favored lake, bones placed within the mountainside, a tomb shackled and tethered together. In a way, he had stayed there in physical form, until Helovia was blown away, until his soul found Isilme again, returning, reliving, reenacting, repeating the friction, the factions of war, the familiar curves and turns of revolution. So his hands stilled, eyes still on the aurora’s horizon, on the streaks of colors he’d never see again, gone and gone and gone; ravenous memories clawing into his mantle. The rumble of his tones were matter of fact, blunt, eternally stripped down and bereft of emotion – cold and hollow. “I died there.” The General couldn’t even really muster a shrug, composed, threatening to slip into apathy and nonchalance, because it was familiar and shielding, walls upon walls, a breath held in his lungs. “Helovia was destroyed not long after,” based on Hotaru and Kiada’s explanations, false idols, gods, and pariahs snagging, stealing, and demolishing. Whether or not the Reaper would’ve survived that either hardly mattered. “I was reborn in my homeland, Isilme, and was eventually pulled here.” A thousand other explanations could’ve lingered and struck between those phrases, but he didn’t have all the answers, and the simplistic lines, sketches seemed to suit best. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

SAMUEL stretch out my life & pick the seams out If Deimos wasn't expecting the question, he could be sure that Sam was equally not expecting the answer. Staring with a blank expression, unsure what to make of the words: were they some kind of metaphor? An exaggeration? Deimos was not prone to either, but it took Sam a moment to grasp that he really meant it: he had died. "...Oh." Sam had heard of souls going from world to world before ending up in Caido, of multiple travels across portals, but not of a return from death. "You...must have been happy then, to wake up. After..um..dying." He said in an attempt to say something, anything optimistic in the wake of that news, eyes glancing to the jar to see how full it was as he wondered when he might be able to leave: it was about half full. take what you like, but close my ears and eyes, watch me stumble over and over.

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Reborn; and he wasn’t the only one to have done so. Perhaps it was machinations of the Voice, perhaps it was because he hadn’t been finished yet, perhaps he’d not had enough time on whatever manifested earths to prosper his works to the masses. Or perhaps it had merely been because of redemption, a lifetime of sins striving to endure, right the wrongs, they’d cast so often in the past. Samuel’s surprise said enough, and Deimos would’ve been content to end it all there and breathe not a single word of it again. He’d told Amalia, and Rexanna, Hotaru, and Kiada knew from personal experiences. But the Ascended’s statement gave him pause, uncertain how to respond as his eyes went to the jar again. Eventually, he contorted something out into the air, another rumble into the ether. “I did not realize it at first. Memories would come back in dreams.” The cycles would continue too – ancestral homes and heritages, gone to wither and decay, gone to die like the rest of them. “Not until I arrived here, and met some familiar faces.” Had he been happy? Content? Or simply disjointed, rattled, bewildered, and confused? Too many lives, worlds, and kingdoms lived within, with too many ties to each one. And then he shrugged, shifting the topic over and away. The beast rose instead, hovering over the jar, and Samuel’s wrist. His gaze went to Zuriel, and he could’ve sworn she rolled her eyes, but began healing the man’s slashed flesh, signaling an end to the monumental task. “This should be enough,” and he nodded, taking the vessel, along with its twin, and ensuring both were tightly capped, lidded, and shut. “I will make sure to have something on the door to honor your sacrifice.” A reminder of his oaths and promises, that he didn’t back away from convictions vowed and assured. Then he twisted back, collecting the rest of the adornments, piercing gaze tethered to Amalia’s brother. “Are you all right?” Had Zuriel’s mending done the job? master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

SAMUEL stretch out my life & pick the seams out "..Oh." Finding out you had died through dreams had to be a disturbingly bizarre experience and suddenly Sam wondered if his own mental torment over the years was truthfully very mundane. At least he had known he had always been alive (even if the most ardent Anti-Ascended believers would argue with that..). "I suppose at least there's some people here you used to know? It's..good, sometimes, to have a little bit of home. Or at least, some of the Outlanders have told me that." Thankfully it seemed he had finally given enough of his fluid and he lifted his hand up out of the jar carefully so it would not spill too much and held it up to Zuriel to have her heal the wound, finally giving her a small smile. Whether or not she chose to deem his wrist worthy, he would get up a moment later and nod at Deimos. "Thank you. I'm fine...I think I'd just like to go home and have a cup of tea now." With that said, he gave his brother-in-law (that would take some getting used to) a final, small smile then walked out of the College, turning his new hand over and wondering if this choice would end up being for the best...if it saved even just one person, he thought it would be. {FIN} take what you like, but close my ears and eyes, watch me stumble over and over.