God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn
Seeking an answer to why they were born
Bastien had almost forgotten Deimos was in the room by the time he had uttered the lines of the poem, his entire attention absorbed once again by Rexanna and the great loss surrounding them both. The silence stretched on and he felt as if he weren't even in a physical space anymore, floating somewhere in a nightmare, until Deimos spoke and the sound of it drew him back down to the room.
He looked around with immediate bewilderment and anger on his face. Usually Bastien was an amiable sort, quick to assure, slow to blame: not now. Now he needed to desperately find a reason for his wife's death and it seemed like Deimos might provide one.
"What do you mean." He asked, flat and demanding, staring the sword right in the eyes.
He looked around with immediate bewilderment and anger on his face. Usually Bastien was an amiable sort, quick to assure, slow to blame: not now. Now he needed to desperately find a reason for his wife's death and it seemed like Deimos might provide one.
"What do you mean." He asked, flat and demanding, staring the sword right in the eyes.
Winds of misfortune have blown them about
You made the outcasts, don't cast them out
BASTIEN
