Deimos was well versed in change and alterations, but tended to defy, rather than adapt. He suited himself to isolation, to an abandoned, forsaken outlook, and it kept others at bay, endless walls too high for them to climb, and eventually they got bored with him, with attempts, and ignored his presence. It was acceptable for a time, and he could carry on brooding, suffering in silence, contemplating calculated, cold-blooded actions, and feel no worse for wear. No one came close. No one bothered. No one hurt. It was protection from his demons, and any ominous, foreboding natures fated to carve their way into his life. However, this yielded its own set of dilemma and trials, because keeping to the outskirts, to the shadows, left him with little information on the surrounding countryside. It was on the outside looking in, and sometimes the smallest pang of regret would resurface on his soul; for there’d been a time where he’d had comrades, he’d had companions, he’d had family and friends, and they’d riot together, immerse themselves in that warmth, in that finery, he no longer held. But they were gone, and he was carved, sculpted anew; forced into strange, new plains and worlds, but following his same old-path.
There’d been a few cracks and fissures in the framework of his statuesque depravity though – Rexanna being the first, the startling familiarity, the promised blend of blended lives, and she proffered him things he didn’t ask for, information he’d never be able to claim for himself. The warrior had yet to come with anything in return – which was ridiculous and irked him to no end, prickled at his mind, clawed at his insides. Rory and Amalia had also managed to segment their way through his indifference by mere acceptance; asking nothing of him more than his presence and a trial of pastries. The latter baffled him far more than the former; all he’d managed to proffer to the other two was some well-timed violence. The notion reared its ugly head, manifested and crooned, roared and howled, in a bludgeoning force, held a staccato rhythm to his cruel nuance. Why the hell would anyone want him around?
He’d served a purpose in Isilme: warrior, soldier, scholar, young and beguiling, a force of nature ready to embark upon the kingdom, eager to be unleashed. Here, he was just one more glowering figure, darkening doorsteps and corners.
The Reaper growled at himself, then grabbed another log, placing it along its brethren, forming his meticulous design, coiling the mutinous thoughts away for something less morose and ridiculous. No sooner had he bent down to grab one more off the sled, did another’s voice ring out, calling his name with startling familiarity. His eyes widened for a second, caught by surprise, irked and irritated that he’d been too scattered amidst his own notions to notice someone approaching. Once he realized it was Amalia, however, he steadied his gaze, narrowing, head tilting, curious as to why she’d even venture to these parts. In his silence, the examining continued, and the answer came well-before her next statement: the smell of the bread wafted its way towards his senses, and his figure eased. She already knew how to tempt him.
Perhaps he did have his uses. “How many do you need?” It was an easygoing affirmation; the man could always go find more trees fallen over, in need of another purpose, another goal before returning to the soil. He wasn’t a baker by any means though, and the wafting of the sustenance kept entangling his confirmation deeper into his gut.
