DEIMOS
It was as if neither one of them were there – vestiges, ethers, traces and naught much else. Perhaps it was easier that way, company only for the sake of lost souls, while he maintained some semblance of being more than a frayed, fettered individual. While Zuriel stared down the young man, for reasons Deimos couldn’t fathom, he continued the composition of Rexanna’s lantern – flickering and blazing through the third interval, of a wedding, the one she’d wanted and picked for herself. A sheen of brightness, an illustration of pride, a dominion of her grace and poise, Bastien placed at her side.
And then the last section, of a Queen, with her laden crown and her dignity, her smile, her supremacy, tucking Azrael along her lap, as if she’d always been there for her child, and hadn’t been lost, hadn’t been discarded, hadn’t been cast away. The sketches came to life as best he could render them, and no matter how many times someone had commented on artistic abilities, he wasn’t certain if they could, would, be enough, to herald or embody her likeness.
He stopped entirely for a moment, studying it, surveying it, before his eyes lifted back to Glas’s actions. Chisels and wood, delicacy and control, wondering if he should bother the other man at all. A simple inquiry ambled through, on his quiet rumbles, and then striving to return his attention back to his own project, parallels, and precision. “Do you craft?” Deimos had seen similar actions within the Basin – the engineers taking shape of their tools, of their devices, of their machines and work, instead of how he organized his incantations to do the contortions for him.
And then the last section, of a Queen, with her laden crown and her dignity, her smile, her supremacy, tucking Azrael along her lap, as if she’d always been there for her child, and hadn’t been lost, hadn’t been discarded, hadn’t been cast away. The sketches came to life as best he could render them, and no matter how many times someone had commented on artistic abilities, he wasn’t certain if they could, would, be enough, to herald or embody her likeness.
He stopped entirely for a moment, studying it, surveying it, before his eyes lifted back to Glas’s actions. Chisels and wood, delicacy and control, wondering if he should bother the other man at all. A simple inquiry ambled through, on his quiet rumbles, and then striving to return his attention back to his own project, parallels, and precision. “Do you craft?” Deimos had seen similar actions within the Basin – the engineers taking shape of their tools, of their devices, of their machines and work, instead of how he organized his incantations to do the contortions for him.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
