remember that you can't save everyone
remember that you have to try
The speculation of the portal not being open halted the formation of his plans, diminishing the catalyst to a low rumble in his chest, some disappointing figment bursting in there. Would he have to wait another year, before Ru’in’s soul could be with Kiada? And what of the Ascended, if they intended to fight the onslaught of monsters and demons? A silent sensation of desperation clung to him, and he hated it, loathed it, the stubborn tenacity hiding the quiet depictions of an oath doomed and damned to go unfulfilled again. “We have another season.” He paused, clenching his jaw once more, the feathering distinct as he glanced down at his papers, signs and emblems of so many other machinations yet to be determined – yearning for something tangible, solid, instead of these never-ending bumps and turns. “I can assist in whatever means necessary, and I have no intention of leaving the Citadel without defensive measures in place.” Even if she’d just told him to take it easy, the lilies hopefully would have them healed by then, and he could dive headfirst into his duties, and take on whatever was required. “What else would need to be done?”He’d eternally been a man of action, plans, and calculations – quiet endeavors, silent stokings, a channel, an unfurling, of Machiavellian pursuits. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t, and he had to rely on further machinations, but very rarely did he react on impulse. Control, precision, and might had served him well, through life after life, and he nodded in understanding. “I will not undertake this mission soon. More preparation is required.” And he needed to be stronger. Better. The plans had been thoughts, molded together and conformed to merely one design. And he didn't know many fools who would go with him.
Deimos folded the parchment away, tucked deep into one of his coat pockets, an air of resignation and regret pulsing over his shoulders and brawn, brows furrowed deeply as he stared into his drink. He didn’t grasp at the comment about Zariah, hiding the potential snarl at her title, dismayed in a sense that none of them had ever been permitted to exact their revenge upon the Merciless.
The figments about Neron, however, were interesting – causing the slightest tilt of his head again, gaze veering away from his glass, corner of his eyes taking in the bartender. From Warden to keeper and dispeller of liquor was a fall, and even more bizarre was Morgan’s reactions towards it. “Rexanna spoke well of him,” a murmur, to prolong something underneath, glance shrewdly narrowing, as if he were trying to pick apart unseen, specious factions. “What has he done to earn your respect?”
out for vengeance
DEIMOS
