centuries deep

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