like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos worked, silent, quiet, hushed, concentrating on his efforts, clinging to the trepidation that he’d somehow fail at the task – even something as simple as placing clay down. That Bastien would want to talk didn’t surprise him, both clearly at opposite ends of the value of discourse, and as his hands molded the elements, he wondered if it was an insult flung at him, or just general conversation. Did he depend too heavily on his enchantments? More often than not, they were utilized for others; to protect, to defend, to construct, to craft. Power, precision, and might had been instilled in his blood, in his bones, since his birth – unfurling, unraveling, when he required and needed, when he sought to shield and guard. Was it a reliance then, or something so inherent as breathing, that he’d never thought to not utilize the efforts? Maybe it’d been the efficiency – the quick ease of demolition, of earth shifting, of fire flaring, that had stoked the abilities, that had finessed them into strength and accord. Maybe it’d been habitual, to not waste anyone’s time, to evade, to escape, to carve his way back into the shadows. So he shifted his gaze away from the structure, onto the floor, and returned again. “I suppose.” Perhaps like when he lifted his blade and shoved it into another’s chest – no magic, only pure violence and vehemence – satisfaction on battlefields. Zuriel snorted from the front parlor, and he stifled himself from voicing those impressions. His glance focused on Bastien’s efforts while he worked, shifting ever so slightly to examine the motions, and then sinking back in to replicate the design. He hadn’t expected the inquiry, and it lanced, painfully, down the roots of his spine. He did flinch this time, outwardly, as if he’d been stabbed, swallowing the bile threatening to plague against his lungs, his senses, suddenly, desperately, craving to be set loose, out of the grounds, out of the sanctuary. “She is probably fine.” Probably because he didn’t know, and wouldn’t anymore. His head hung and something stung, dug, another admittance to another individual. “She left me.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace