[Mini Event] just the way of things

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The Reaper should’ve been used to the steady beat of ignorance melding its way across his brow – it whispered, it hissed, it coiled a staccato rhythm along his skull. You don’t know anything it would say in hushed layers, cackling in the wind. You don’t know what you’re doing, it would nestle in his munitions, in his invocations, in the deadly sanctions of his nefarious schemes. What could you possibly do? it asked, iniquitous and seditious, spread along the plains of his veins like seething embers, molten coals. The more he wandered into the midst of this world, the less he understood; too many gods, too many demons, too many myths, legends, and stories he was so woefully unfamiliar with. Though he’d dove headfirst into action, assisting in building, in restoration for an earth with all its furtive secrets, the rest of the void was so thick with its duplicity and treachery that it almost caused him to pause. It required more deliberation, more machinations, more cold-blooded calculations, but his awareness of what lay within the deep, dark abyss might’ve even been enough to strangle the beast; he preferred the art of war over the pungent, serpentine duplicity, the hollowed ciphers, and the enigmatic discord wrapping around their throats. The notion of announcements and information led him down to the Temple. He’d only strayed as far as the bar and the library, never once announcing his oaths, proclamations, or vows to gods. He’d been abandoned and forsaken long ago, back when he’d fallen to his knees and begged, pleaded for things to come back to him, for those he cherished and loved to be more than salt of the earth, than dust in the sand, than ash in the wind; and there’d been no answer. Instead, any convictions or promises were proffered to individuals, to people, to those who whittled their way into his soul. The piercing depths of his eyes caught the lighted candles, the small gathering of others, clustering together, uniting under something; the din always made him cautious, because he’d seen the world unravel in an instant. He offered nods to those he knew or recognized, Remi, Ronin, others nearby were given a grim set of his features, the usual nonchalance and reticence formed along his face. He took a space towards the back, along the shadows, out of habit; away, surveying, scrutinizing, galvanized and ready for the damnation sure to take place: he might’ve been a slow learner, but he remembered, recalled, consigned memories to his mind. The way gazes shifted, stares held, only meant good news wasn’t completely forthcoming; he had nothing to add in the way of the giant, towering Spire, ignoring it presently, but there were developments, something else, crackling beneath the surface.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}