DEIMOS
There’d been a time when the mountains, the valleys, the tundra, had been his He reigned over the summits and ruled over the peaks, and together they were a formidable, unattainable wake, a balance of ferocity, treachery, and power, and he would’ve stopped at nothing to protect everything within the domain. So it felt almost familiar, almost a mind-numbing ache, almost surreal, almost like home, so step out into the tundra, and lift his head to the chilling wind, to the glacial vestiges, to the air interspersed with snow. It took him several movements to not lock and cord himself away in those mirages and seconds, to not instantly embody the Reaper, and stalk the world at large, not flicker into shadow, not savagely press his void into the realm, to not hover like a demon, to not wander into its berth as a reckless, unfurling, unwinding heathen.But he did stare over the expanse as he waited, dressed in his furs, adorned in his weaponry. None of it ornamental, and all of him a munition, blood and ichor pulsing, pervading, with the persistence of vehemence, a stirring ambition of predacious footfalls and soldier mentality. Zuriel was quiet behind him, as if she too were part of the backdrop, the scenery, the sovereignty split under his boots, over the livelihood of his existence here and now. Not the Basin he always told himself, and some days it was easier to believe. And some, like today, could be permitted a second, an instance, where he was back in their sights, stoking ambition, aspirations, and sedition.
Noah’s arrival bid the drawl of silence away, but only in quiet platitudes, as the hunter shared the wisdom, the sagacity, the knowledge of a people who had been born and raised here. Not an Outlander, sworn to protect a range of fortifications long since gone, and his bones carved into the sides of its cliffs. And still, his strides were swift, sure, and certain, like he’d spent lifetimes in the reach of snow, like refugee spirits came back to him, like ghosts and wraiths and phantoms of Steppes and frosted breaths curled into his flesh and bone. Matching pace with Noah, and the unicorn not far behind, they could finesse themselves into an unwinding glimpse of the endless, ivory abyss, stark outlines in the scenery of nothingness. He listened, head never bowed, piercing eyes on the horizon, every inch, every movement, one of predators, behemoths, and monoliths, searching for alike beasts. “What else do you typically hunt?” His voice a reflection of the low rumble, the tones that wouldn’t go far; meant to dive into pockets of snow, and not drift outward.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
