[Seasonal Event] free of the coliseums

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Deimos had learned to hate a lot of things. His wrath and contempt extended to a broad reach, shadowing and smothering lands, individuals, and even encompassing empty deities and their useless, inept paragons. His fury was marked and etched in stone, in blades, in anarchy and rebellion, by the silent strife as he drew a blade, by the antagonistic acrimony in his wake. But no one here, especially not Amalia, had earned the steely regard, the demonic sieges, the balance of living, breathing weapon and carved, statuesque iniquity. He wouldn’t deny it was much easier to blend straight back into those avaricious columns and marble countenances; he couldn’t be wounded there, blinded there, dragged into his personal hells and condemnation. However, Amalia didn’t deserve the growls, the rubble, the ruin, because she and Rory had readily accepted him, when they, quite frankly, could have shown him the door the moment his violent tendencies became apparent, when his predatory stance overwhelmed. They were still on a tense wire though, both seemingly uncertain and unsure of where they stood – Deimos had long since been used to scorn and isolation, and he could only ascertain the woman didn’t quite feel at ease around him. It could have been the treachery, the danger, the obvious, menacing, sinister, brooding capacity pervading his figure, but she still stayed. He knew he wasn’t a joy to be around. He knew he wasn’t amusing. He knew, deep, deep down, that his protective abilities just about rounded out his virtues, but there’d still been some, the baker included, who didn’t seem remotely bothered. So, he would always put up with those willing to put up with him. The loaf of bread made its appearance though, and he’s momentarily distracted, eyes focused entirely on the food. He could hear the little oath and assurance in there, the memories of tumultuous pumpkins attempting to maul Rory, the immoral glee the Reaper beheld in vanquishing the ridiculous foes, and then the rewards thereafter. The warrior’s brows lifted again, one defiantly arched, at the note of pumpkin seeds, and wondered if he was supposed to reach out and take the proffered goods, a signature of a bargain, an agreement, rendered complete. He gave voice to it instead. “Deal.” But instead of shaking hands on it, he nodded, then gestured to the remains of the wood on his sled; because it seemed like it’d be enough for her bundles. “You can take the sled.” It wouldn’t be to his detriment; he could go and retrieve it later, before LongNight howled into the ether.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}
Amalia <3