DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword didn’t seek further apprehension or trepidation into the plans; tossed into the air, and then left to saunter, to simmer, to linger over their own accord; future intervals to peruse. Likely during the winter ahead, in some restless acrimony he’d churn and coil himself within, unfurling at the strands if not permitted into some sort of action and routine. With all the baskets lifted, courtesy of claws and hands, he began securing the ties, ensuring they wouldn’t fall on the wagon’s sandy march towards portals, and then across icy roads and snow.
At the inquiry, his eyes skimmed over the top of the fish, where fins no longer moved, where scales glinted in the sun. “Cold.” One glance towards the dragon, and a matching snicker, ensued he’d meant it to be a facetious comment, and his head ducked down again, calloused fingers working the rope into capable knots. “We have a quest from Frey to ensure the Citadel is protected. We should be able to finish that before Deepfrost.” Barring that, there was the trail towards the portal to consider; various other factions and actions required of them – and he was a bit out of sorts, so used to occupying his time with gathering snow moss, instilling warnings about LongNight monsters, and then heeding the call of terror. “Hopefully there will not be any cultist attacks or political upheavals this year.” A snort hastened, leaning under the wagon to grab at dangling strands. “And Torchline?”
At the inquiry, his eyes skimmed over the top of the fish, where fins no longer moved, where scales glinted in the sun. “Cold.” One glance towards the dragon, and a matching snicker, ensued he’d meant it to be a facetious comment, and his head ducked down again, calloused fingers working the rope into capable knots. “We have a quest from Frey to ensure the Citadel is protected. We should be able to finish that before Deepfrost.” Barring that, there was the trail towards the portal to consider; various other factions and actions required of them – and he was a bit out of sorts, so used to occupying his time with gathering snow moss, instilling warnings about LongNight monsters, and then heeding the call of terror. “Hopefully there will not be any cultist attacks or political upheavals this year.” A snort hastened, leaning under the wagon to grab at dangling strands. “And Torchline?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
