DEIMOS
Either Zuriel was amused or partaking in something far deeper, because her eyes followed, traced, narrowing slightly; imperious and assertive, arrogant and proud, over the flicker of movement in the other man. Deimos didn’t see it, didn’t recognize it, didn’t feel it through the flickers of their bond. Maybe he was too immersed in the reel of demanding, commanding emotions, or perhaps she didn’t want to dwell in that murk either.
Once Rexanna’s was given finishing touches, glimmering marks of gold for the top, for all the connecting pieces, he began to start on Kiada’s. Different in its elegance, in its design, in its shape, it resembled a piece of flame, wider at the bottom, rising to the miniature minaret in jagged edges and pieces, cut and slashed to resemble a calculating inferno. He started on the first enveloping tier, where there were twins, alike and different all at once, coloring and hues blending together into fabrications of parents, ancestors, and how they’d grown and prospered, the mountains behind them. And then the second was a conflagration, ample embers along spines and sinew, from an emboldened child who’d known dedication, determination – and then the outlier of a false god, heralded from somewhere else, shadowed and cloaked.
He only briefly glanced away from his work at Glas’s statement, at the whirl and speed and oblivion of a blur in his motions – arching his brows, widening his eyes, to merely watch and observe for a moment. The monolith’s overbearing sentiments were forgotten for those minute seconds as he strived to decipher what had just occurred – if there was some incantation rambling through the other man’s form, or if he was hallucinating again (if there'd really been no cure, if the affliction was still there, resting and residing, waiting to torture once more). “Do you enjoy it?” At the speed, at the rate, he’d so vitally pursued? “And how did you do it so quickly?”
Once Rexanna’s was given finishing touches, glimmering marks of gold for the top, for all the connecting pieces, he began to start on Kiada’s. Different in its elegance, in its design, in its shape, it resembled a piece of flame, wider at the bottom, rising to the miniature minaret in jagged edges and pieces, cut and slashed to resemble a calculating inferno. He started on the first enveloping tier, where there were twins, alike and different all at once, coloring and hues blending together into fabrications of parents, ancestors, and how they’d grown and prospered, the mountains behind them. And then the second was a conflagration, ample embers along spines and sinew, from an emboldened child who’d known dedication, determination – and then the outlier of a false god, heralded from somewhere else, shadowed and cloaked.
He only briefly glanced away from his work at Glas’s statement, at the whirl and speed and oblivion of a blur in his motions – arching his brows, widening his eyes, to merely watch and observe for a moment. The monolith’s overbearing sentiments were forgotten for those minute seconds as he strived to decipher what had just occurred – if there was some incantation rambling through the other man’s form, or if he was hallucinating again (if there'd really been no cure, if the affliction was still there, resting and residing, waiting to torture once more). “Do you enjoy it?” At the speed, at the rate, he’d so vitally pursued? “And how did you do it so quickly?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
