centuries deep

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