like salt in the sea

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Dreams and figments, potential portals of reality that he hadn’t thought about – believing the slumber-induced ghosts, labyrinths, and quandaries had merely been a part of his memories, woven back to life when he needed them the most. When he’d required her advice, her sanctity, her compassion, her kindness, her sagacity, when he was so utterly incapable of doing anything but sinking. Did it hurt more then, to know and understand that they weren’t going to ever be tangible again (not until he found a way, of course, not until he’d broken some aspect of control over souls)? Or was it something to cherish too, in hopes that it would occur once more? Was it just as fleeting, just as melancholy, as the rest of the repose diminishing, disappearing, around them? He fell quiet, because one look at Bastien felt like he’d stumbled into another pitfall; but then there were other mentions of her, of where they’d been and gone and he sighed some hushed nuance. His gaze, motions, and movements continued on their supportive structures, conforming it to muscle memory now while his thoughts immersed in their coiling measures. “Is Venice where you came from?” He’d never heard the word before; much like mostly everyone else likely reacted to all his stories about the world before this one – blending and molding and fixating together. “Perhaps she can travel between them all now. We were back in the Basin.” A soft smile to follow, directed at nothing but the memorial, where his hands could mold and create something for the Penumbra, for the Thief. How like Rexanna it would be – to traverse wherever she wanted, head held high and noble, procuring information and biding her time for those who still needed her the most. Maybe Bastien’s carefree existence could shatter down the fortifications of anguish, igniting another snort from the Sword, a shake of his head flickering and following. There was no quarrel that the Ascended seemed concerned with aesthetic first and foremost, whether it came down towards art or people. An argument was ready on the monolith’s tongue though, because he didn’t draw others in, and had so often repelled, intimidated, and remained unattainable, usually entirely on purpose. But that had been as the Reaper. He was very different, very altered, very changed now, and had somehow managed to snag at found family, at those he could still cherish and protect. This last iteration and interval had scarred though, cut, altered, and damaged; exactly why he’d hated the notions of vulnerability, and hid. “I will keep it in mind.” He likely wouldn’t; opting to heal well before he ever ventured down into these dimensions again. He swung it back around though, gaze still upon the memorial, the task at hand. “When I first met Rexanna, I thought about her potential. Her talents. Her abilities.” A thief, a dagger, a collector of information; wrapped around smug smiles and benevolence – but then, he’d been King, and a Machiavellian mind always at the forefront. “She never proved me wrong.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace