like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Battle hadn’t instilled fear – not the drumming of war hollow and vibrant in his ears, not the onslaught of impending torment racing to greet him, not the ominous declaration of a war already lost. The unknown hadn’t caused trepidation, because he was iron-forged and could machinate, plot, muse, and ruse his way out of most tribulations, embracing it with a full-fledged yearning, acquisition of knowledge, and the intricacies of curiosity. But the Ascended’s quiet inspection of Deimos’ craftmanship left him apprehensive at best, the same-old refrain beating against his skull: you are not enough. And then there were the accepting smiles, the pat upon his shoulder, and the words reflecting back upon him. Something strangled its way down his throat, and he nodded, fighting off the self-torment; spine not as unyielding, stark expanse not so unreachable. “Thank you.” He’d already passed some muster, and perhaps he wouldn’t be such an abject failure here. He followed at Bastien’s directions, Zuriel left at the entryway to sniff her way around other artifacts. The Sword nodded at the plans, the implications, striving to form a picture in his mind of the future frame, a memorial meant to come to life. Watching, listening, his gaze narrowed at the clay, studying the way the artist worked, for the soldier had never implemented with the element (unless it was for some timely decision with the earth; shifting rapidly to make a shield, a shelter, so no one perished). He bent along, intending to follow through as Bastien had directed, taking handfuls of the clay, and placing them along the wall; ensuring some measure of fortification. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace