whole and apart and in-between

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Sword did his best not to wrinkle his nose somewhat in distaste; attempting to cease the sentimentality from bleeding through. That Loren, who had a luxere companion, could shrug off the notions of hunting one down gave him the slightest pause and consideration, muffling a snort in its wake. Perhaps he simply wouldn’t stalk or prey upon them, and that would be that. Most of the time they gave him a wide berth anyway – never caring for the darker edges of his soul, of the incantations eternally lodged and lacquered into his veins, flesh, and bone. “Interesting,” was all he could fathom, pondering assimilation into other cultures, or how many times he’d have to morph, alter, re-shape, and erode. A few more cuts were made, portioning out denizens of the fowl again, before reaching for another. Deimos’ eyes widened only a fraction when the story came full circle: Zariah’s involvement the least surprising moment, and merely because it sounded exactly like something she would do. More for curiosity’s sake, because the demonic intrigue in him never truly ceased or desisted, he tilted his head, pondering the ilk, the mark of the Academy, and the parameters involved with its continued existence. “Did you find her methods effective?” Because his training had never been for the danger, for the intrigue, for the monumental cataclysms – mostly about fortitude, about collaboration, about building and defining one’s abilities in multitude of ways, rather than setting them about in potential torture and treachery. “And does anyone utilize the Academy now?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace