death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
The Sword had no intention of wasting away anymore of the stolen time with Sunjata of all people, and nodded at the congratulations, attention boring directly into the barkeep’s range, silent pleas for them to hurry along. They seemed in no particular rush, despite his piercing eyes narrowed to slits at the back of their head, and was ultimately forced to listen to the Flood.
The information he shared was not something expected – so much so that the monolith maneuvered to stare at Sunjata, the puncturing slits still dangerous, still treacherous, and even more with this ridiculous news. He couldn’t stop the sudden onslaught of primeval contempt flaring in his veins, a blistering, contorted wrath starting in his chest and unwinding, unfurling through ichor, rampaging while his nefarious heart beat insistent drums of war. It was a familiar throng, age-old and caustic, savage temptation, unholy ire, a primitive, rampant decadence clustered in minatory decay – wondering if anyone would care if he reached out and throttled the man with his bare hands. The ferocity stoked heathen antagonism, for all those moments when Hotaru had come to him, openly weeping, sobbing, over this ridiculous, foolish man. Why she’d chosen the idiot who’d broken her heart, who’d left her for the midwife (and then the spiral of chaos thereafter) was beyond Deimos’ train of thought, because he couldn’t ascertain how any rational being was enamored by the imbecile before him.
And then, come to find out, whoever this Nate individual was, he’d wrangled two people into this mess.
The General thought about stabbing, about maiming, about completing the job he’d instigated seasons upon seasons ago. Sunjata had been given and granted enough warnings for a lifetime. Were it his choice, the idiot wouldn’t be alive. Was that why Hotaru hadn’t told him? Had scampered off into oblivion with Kiada and Wessex, without a god damn word? His jaw clenched, and he permitted one massive inhale, then exhale, before speaking. One last foreboding measure then, so the Flood could truly understand where the Reaper and Sword stood. “If you hurt her again, I will finish what I started during the hunt.” A promise, a conviction, an eldritch oath, committed to with a lacquer of fury and vengeance.
Invitations to weddings made him turn back around, disappointed to see the goods still weren’t ready in that short span of time. “I will come.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t, speak for Amalia, uncertain of her comfort levels with any of the now designated trio. But not for him, not for this Nate person; for Hotaru, and no one else. To support her, even if he believed her choice to be amongst the dimmest – but he said none of it out into the ether, well aware his decisions hadn’t been the best lately.
The information he shared was not something expected – so much so that the monolith maneuvered to stare at Sunjata, the puncturing slits still dangerous, still treacherous, and even more with this ridiculous news. He couldn’t stop the sudden onslaught of primeval contempt flaring in his veins, a blistering, contorted wrath starting in his chest and unwinding, unfurling through ichor, rampaging while his nefarious heart beat insistent drums of war. It was a familiar throng, age-old and caustic, savage temptation, unholy ire, a primitive, rampant decadence clustered in minatory decay – wondering if anyone would care if he reached out and throttled the man with his bare hands. The ferocity stoked heathen antagonism, for all those moments when Hotaru had come to him, openly weeping, sobbing, over this ridiculous, foolish man. Why she’d chosen the idiot who’d broken her heart, who’d left her for the midwife (and then the spiral of chaos thereafter) was beyond Deimos’ train of thought, because he couldn’t ascertain how any rational being was enamored by the imbecile before him.
And then, come to find out, whoever this Nate individual was, he’d wrangled two people into this mess.
The General thought about stabbing, about maiming, about completing the job he’d instigated seasons upon seasons ago. Sunjata had been given and granted enough warnings for a lifetime. Were it his choice, the idiot wouldn’t be alive. Was that why Hotaru hadn’t told him? Had scampered off into oblivion with Kiada and Wessex, without a god damn word? His jaw clenched, and he permitted one massive inhale, then exhale, before speaking. One last foreboding measure then, so the Flood could truly understand where the Reaper and Sword stood. “If you hurt her again, I will finish what I started during the hunt.” A promise, a conviction, an eldritch oath, committed to with a lacquer of fury and vengeance.
Invitations to weddings made him turn back around, disappointed to see the goods still weren’t ready in that short span of time. “I will come.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t, speak for Amalia, uncertain of her comfort levels with any of the now designated trio. But not for him, not for this Nate person; for Hotaru, and no one else. To support her, even if he believed her choice to be amongst the dimmest – but he said none of it out into the ether, well aware his decisions hadn’t been the best lately.
DEIMOS
