centuries deep

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Sword eyed the door for a long time, settled there in his cart. It represented protection and death, a collision of good intentions forged with annihilation. The temptation, the enticement, to simply destroy it right then and there, set it ablaze, hack it apart with an ax, completely mutilate it, decimate it, into a thousand pieces, stirred hard in his chest. It would’ve been satisfying, to watch it all turn to ash and dust, splintered remnants, fractured lines. It would’ve given him some semblance of control where none seemed to exist any longer. Then ruminations curled and coiled further – of consequences, of impending retributions, or even of explanations. How he’d tried and attempted and thought he’d known exactly what he was doing - He didn’t know what was best any longer. Maybe he never really had, and the lesson stuck in between his ribs like a knife; self-inflicted wounds. So on the latter threads, Deimos pulled the cart and its contents along, through the fields, down into familiar worlds. Last time he’d amidst Safrin’s shrine had been for his wedding, something splendid, something happy, something wonderful, and now he arrived with no trace of its wake on his soul. A certain numbness amidst the strife and anguish clawed over him now, made him bow his head before the familiar lines and wonder just what on earth he was striving for. Safrin was a quiet call, and he thought about offerings, about manifestations of something from his hands after the LongNight, but as his eyes lingered over the known sanctum, they noted broken wares and missing things. He’d helped create this structure, and would know the segments anywhere – the starwhale’s lantern in shards and pieces along the ground, the intermingling of windchimes and their tunes missing in the void. He thought little of it, his mind already brimming with too many alternating angles, ruminations, and machinations, presumed it’d been monsters’ claws in the absence of gods and heralds during their favored reign. They could be replaced, regardless. So he worked while he waited, gilded palms extending outward so the lantern could be replicated, so that light could enter and remain all over again, so that something, besides grief and anguish, felt normal. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Safrin

everything looks perfect
from far away

Appearing, Safrin looked at the shattered bits of lantern. Windchimes lost and stolen. Her perfectly painted lips were pulled down in a frown, her back towards the Sword as her enigmatic gaze surveyed the wreckage. The monsters had not done this of course; it was mortal hands who had desecrated her shrine.

Or at least, mostly mortal.

Straightening, Safrin glanced over her shoulder towards the burly man. He with his wagon and door and scowl and heartache. Her concern was for her shrine of course. Lowering to pluck up a bit of glass that once held part of the starwhale's call within, the goddess turned towards the Sword, her eyes on the bit of glass in her fingers.

"Might have been easier to call to me from the Temple, given its proximity to the door and the state of this place..."

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame She appeared while he worked, as the lantern finished in his grasp. Not the same, lacking in the starwhale essence (Jyoti not nearby, something Amalia would have to mend in this cluster), the glass melded together from his fire, earth, and creation. The beast placed it down on the ground, to be completed, rendered, or inspected, coats of sheen and veneer, resins cooling. He followed through in the midst of silence, in the precarious ruins, enabling and utilizing the elements all over again to contort and coil another set of windchimes, for the ones no longer there. A furrowed brow remained when she finally spoke, eyes lifting from his work, as one column after another conformed into stars, moons, crescent beacons, and cosmos. He understood the measures of her words; it would’ve been far easier to merely walk along to the back of the Temple and call to her there. But there’d been too many damned things lurking in those halls, anguish, despair, grief, torment, and a myriad of others, from when he’d guarded a tomb. “I did not want to stay in there any longer.” He paused, gaze boring down at the music-makers in his palms, a breath threatening to stifle through the control, the composure, clawing through his spine. “The door’s effects bore the opposite of my intentions.” Hadn’t protected, hadn’t shielded – only mauled, only murdered. A harsh lesson for a Sword, who’d only ever wanted to do the former. She must’ve known; he wouldn’t expect a herald to be ignorant of the deaths surrounding their world, even if they hadn’t been there in those moments. His voice remained level, no accusations bared, no hackles raised, no growl emitted, but a simple inquiry – to comprehend how far everything had gone. “Was that your goal?” To take down the Ascended? master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Safrin

everything looks perfect
from far away

That Deimos hadn't wanted to linger in the Temple received only a shrug from the goddess. None of them had to stay there, after all. All could have left the Grounds for LongNight. There would be much to clean up afterwards, but what of it? At least there would be no one dead.

"My goal?" Safrin repeated, raising a brow in the direction of the sword, an accusatory smile playing on her ruby-red lips. "This was all your idea. A door to block out the LongNight monsters. But now you're not ignorant of what they are, and from whose fickle hands they have been created. The monsters...the ascended, they are one in the same. Why did you think it required ascended contributions to create?"

Turning to face him, a speculative smile on her lips, the goddess tilted her head slightly. "One might ask the same of you, Deimos. Whether it was your goal." The pieces were all there of course, fitting easily into place if only one bothered to look.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Damned if he’d done nothing at all, damned that he had; the Reaper had been used to the double-edged tactics, but rarely stood before gods in the same stead. Perhaps that had been his first mistake (or just a mere episode in the reel of errors). Rexanna had ultimately paid the price for his ignorance, for things he should’ve known and thought he understood. But he comprehended some weight of it now, after the warnings, after the considerations, after the attempts, a trial gone to decay. It was a wonder anyone tried anything at all here; to have so many consequences blasted back at them. His fingers curled around the chimes in his grasp, preventing the entirety of his fist to close, but they rang together in a cluster, of his stupidity, of his derision, of his melancholy. Perhaps Safrin meant rhetorical inquiries, and he had to swallow down the choking noose grating at his nape once more. “I did not think.” An admittance,  just presumed, just went headfirst, just went into thinking he’d prolonged others’ lives, and then ultimately ended his friend’s. One and the same, monsters and Ascended, lines subtly blurred, manifestations rendered differently, but the contortions of their prowess still present. He glanced upwards at her from his stare at the ground, at the speculation written there. “It was not.” But it could be. And deep, deep down, beyond the workings of anguish and despair, was a malicious anger. The Reaper still had ties to the Sword’s blood, and the menace, the hatred, the contempt for things considered adversaries, for actions he should’ve, might’ve taken, so long ago. Had it been kept in reserve because of Rexanna? After the blight? After the Mathair? After hearing the Ascended could’ve stopped LongNight’s assaults? Or was this more manipulation? He’d stuck himself into a path of crosshairs – and neither avenue seemed sufficient. Save for one, curled and coiled amidst his eternal loathing (for himself, and for those harmed) – no longer holding back, no longer any need of it. The Sword’s eyes looked towards the door, to the series of machinations rolling in his mind again. It should’ve been stopped, after everything – but he stuck to his characteristics, of repercussions, of consequences, of spillovers, of what was to come. “Can the door be altered into something else?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Safrin

everything looks perfect
from far away

That Deimos hadn't thought things through received only a shrug from the goddess. Perhaps she was merely being intentionally vague. Perhaps her lack of warning was some subtle punishment for Deimos not fulling pledging himself to her. Perhaps Safrin was merely being Safrin, and letting the chips fall where they would. She was under no obligation to recite each and every implication after all, and it wasn't as thought Deimos had asked.

'Of course it can.' Safrin replied. "I assume you mean altered into something else and retaining the abilities within...what did you have in mind?"

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Shrugs and indifference; he might’ve done the same if grief hadn’t taken hold – placing the replicated windchimes where the ones created before had lingered in their melodies. Entirely too aware of gods and their manipulations, and still woefully ignorant that he hadn’t relayed enough (likely too tired to care, wouldn’t know enough to ask, would take it all upon himself – layer the blame in rightful factions), he stifled a sigh, and let it burrow its way through his chest. “Yes,” came the initial response, and contemplation clenched through his jawline, along the furrows of his brow; if he was just going to ultimately make things worse, if the wrath and contempt funneling its way through his blood would be enough to simply place him upon the edges, boundaries, and fringes of another choice. Vengeance? Penance? Redemption? Or merely another means of the vitriol and vehemence instilled in him from lifetimes before, coiled and contorted once more? Maybe he hadn’t learned his lesson, maybe stubbornness and tactician measures would eventually erode him again and again and again. “A sword,” rumbled through his vocals, succinct, concise, his eyes flickering from the door and back to her. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Safrin

everything looks perfect
from far away

'A sword for the Sword." It was fitting more than it was cliche, and Safrin nodded her approval. "Before I give it to you...best you fully understand the ramifications of your choices, yes?" Folding her arms and offering the Sword a maternal look of warning, the deity considered for a moment before offering the once-Reaper his task.

"Consider what would happen if this new sword of yours fell into the wrong hands...speak with someone who would be the wrong hands in that regard. Speak with someone you think might destroy your sword, and a third who would use it for good.." She smiled slyly here, leaving 'good' up to Deimos' interpretation.

"Or, speak with the Voice herself and see what she makes of your weapon."

---

Deimos can EITHER

Speak with three individuals: one who would use the sword for evil, one who would likely destroy it, and one who would use it for good. Must be three separate individuals.

OR

He can speak with the Voice about the door/sword.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Sword had already stirred up machinations for the use of such a blade (to maim future monster dilemmas at LongNight, to render damage to possible, upcoming consequences of the latest transgressions), but he could understand the depths of her sagacity. He’d already learned from one lesson, and there was to be more, far more, in these interims. The beast deserved it, for the trials and tribulations he’d already orchestrated. Her warning wouldn’t go unheeded, not after his disastrous attempts at protecting, at shielding. Because what if it simply occurred again? What if someone else snagged hold of the intended weapon, and utilized it for something beyond his schemes and intentions? It’d already happened once, and he didn’t want it to occur again. His methodology was meant for potential repercussions, actions and decisions for the future, but someone else might not warrant the calculations so heavily. So he nodded towards the foreboding essence, swallowing down the notions, fervent to try again, to be better, to be more guarded, to be capable of ceasing the failures mounting across his shoulders. “Understood.” He committed the tasks to memory, those who would wield it for evil, to destroy it entirely, or to mold it for good. Speaking with the Voice caused him an arch of his brow (because he doubted he’d make it five steps within such a shrine without being blown apart for previous actions). The monolith bowed his head, drew a long breath, and rumbled. “Thank you for listening, and trying.” Attempting to instill some sort of semblance into him that wasn’t idiotic, foolish, or damned; and he knew he didn’t make it very easy. Deimos’ gaze went to the door, idle and seemingly innocent, in the cart. “I can take this in the meantime.” Hide it, store it away; out of the potential hands she’d previously proclaimed. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Safrin

everything looks perfect
from far away

"Or you can leave it with me, where it can do no more inadvertant damage."

Damage. Not injury. Because at the end of the day, the ascended were things that only looked human. They could not feel pain. They were not composed of only blood and bone and muscle. Their deaths were no great loss.

"But it is up to you." Safrin could see Deimos carrying the door with him, storing it someplace safe as part of some self-imposed penance. He was like that. But he could be practical as well.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame His eyes went from Safrin, and then back to the door, pondering on the wiles and machinations stirring there too. In the grand scheme of things, he supposed it would likely be safer here, where no Ascended would tread (not without a death wish, as of late), in case the shelter he chose still didn’t provide a great option. Despite his great need for penance, redemption for wrongdoing, he wouldn’t ignore rational, reasonable contortions either. “All right,” a rumble orchestrating from his throat, accepting this as a course of action. He removed the door from the cart, and placed it down before the goddess – surveying it once more, amongst the repaired lantern, lacking its whale light, and the wind chimes. “Thank you. I will return.” He offered the slightest of smiles, before pulling the cart along, out of the sanction, with new knowledge to acquire. {FIN} master of nothing place; of recoil and grace