[PQ] but first, some rebellion

if you don't terrify people a little then what's the point

Unlike some of the others, who might’ve been taking the task into emotional levels, Deimos had a great number of enemies, adversaries, or rivals to choose from; and the only inspiration he required was a healthy dose of rage. While everyone else tended to their effigies, the contemptuous lines of his memories webbed and waned, passing over potential layers and upheavals. Mirage had been a worthy opponent for as long as he’d known her, but eventually their grievances had long since been aired. Jigano was an irritating measure of condescending sagacity and know-it-all proclivities with such a foothold on selfishness it vexed the beast even now. Zariah had been a ridiculous, overpowering, overwhelming dictator, but was now rumored to be dead.

So he settled into his movements, dipped his brush into blackened hues, and began to paint over the fixtures of one enemy stark and cold against his machinations. First there was her face – from what he could recall, remember, from days of battle, from lunging perilously at her disturbing, illusionary factions, from defending his people constantly, consistently, from season to season to season, until the debauchery settled. And then skulls; like she was a representation of skeletal remains. The loathsome creature probably would’ve enjoyed the image – so he rendered the figure nearly withered and decayed, bloodied from the scales of swords and blades robbing her of her senses, riddling and rankling her to nothing.

Then the temporary Warden stepped back, hastening a long sip and swallow from his beer; narrowing his eyes as the wrath simmered and seethed in between his ribs. It took a few more seconds to bring it all down, to have it washed away, and the alcohol was a pleasant little burn in the back of his head, easing everything into a tranquil, forbearing stature once more. After surveying it for a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders. “Two drinks,” he awarded himself; a job well done. He’d be more than content to batter the figure to pieces later on.

Polishing off his first and working on his second, Deimos went to make his rounds. Chulane was the first stop this time, and the image set upon the figure was something out of a nightmare. His head tilted vaguely to study it, figuring perhaps he simply required more alcohol or some of it had already spiraled around Chulane’s efforts. “What is it?” For curiosity’s sake, the intonations quiet during his scrutinizing. “One drink,” taking off some points for bizarre smearing and weird-looking teeth.

The Sword did naught more than snort at Kiada, the juvenile predilections remaining on the curves of his mouth as he wandered closer, intending to inspect her second attempts at the stitching. Unfortunately, this round didn’t go quite so well either, and the frayed ends simply couldn’t hold the ramparts and limbs together. No fortune or luck had been shared between Chulane and the Harpy, leaving the Sword to laugh outright, but also lending a hand to restitch the broken, pathetic fibers. “There. Now paint.” No drinks awarded for those efforts either – not that it would affect her much.

His motions toward Belril seemed to have caused somewhat of a mortification, and so he merely shrugged his shoulders at the semblance of the orphanage sending the child here. Perhaps the youth would be helpful, but it remained to be seen. He paid no heed to the promise, save for intending to hold him to it, before glancing at the target’s newfound paint. Something seemed very personal, very realistic, very true to form, and the Sword didn’t miss the uncanny resemblance – perhaps something parental, a descendant line of hostility and circumstances. He considered, but didn’t ask, didn’t question, awarding towards the point system, as the figure was well craft. “Two drinks.” Of juice.

Finally, there was Aisha. The scowls directed his way didn’t bother him at all, the depths of his snicker and smirk reappearing. Another drink, another dreg, down to the bottom of his second, before he inspected and examined. Avian, feathered, plumage draped and dissolved; curious about its disposition, from where it hailed, but voicing none of the inquiries flickering over his ruses and schemes. They were all entitled to their secrets. “Two drinks,” towards the leopardess.

Thereafter, they could place the targets elsewhere to dry – giving and granting more opportunities to earn the coveted alcohol. Deimos had already grabbed and cut a slab of bread, not intending to become hungover or sloshed on an empty stomach, handing it out to those requiring some sustenance before they moved onto the next task. The monolith maneuvered, still steady, still enduring, and took out five of the archery targets, clearly defeated, flattened, and dismayed from earlier sieges and assaults. “We need to re-stuff these.” He gestured and showed the hay, straw, and other nuances available, and where they could undo the stitching, place the wares within, and redo the strings.

--

Deimos has earned two drinks!
Chulane has earned one drink!
Kiada did not stitch her target well again, but Deimos has helped, and she can move onto painting. No drinks.
Belril has earned two drinks (of juice)!
Aisha has earned two drinks!

Next task, restuff the archery targets!

DEIMOS