DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
The Sword watched, gauged, her reaction. Part of the dilemma, and eventual, future ones, were that no one quite knew everything the monsters were capable of. He could only reflect back memories, mimic experiences, but even in those instances, some were left out. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, torment the way they had – the whispers, the claws, the sadistic spread of threats, warnings, and declarations, the way torture wound its way through minds, a hazardous, treacherous, lethal crawl. He couldn’t render his effigy invisible, cloak it into decrees of the unknown, where a shattering maneuver devastated, unleashed, unfurled towards a target. He wouldn’t pluck out her eyes, like when Rexanna had been blinded, or throw a beam into her chest. He wouldn’t take her fingers. He wouldn’t burn the barracks to the ground to prove a point.
Deimos could grant her these movements, these motions, but not much more. The real test would be in that hellhole, where she’d be forced to face a completely different range of demons.
Despite her arrows volleying, building quite an array within the target (it had begun to look much like a porcupine), there was no ceasing its onslaught. It had no brain. It had no way of ceasing its compulsion. It was only controlled and contorted by him, and his incantations.
After all – when did the monsters cease? When did they stop? He’d never seen it for himself. Only when he churned the guildhouse into ash and soot and cinders, when he’d taken the walls down, when he’d released the flames, the conflagration, the inferno, to eat at the world and to consume everything within – had those demons relented.
So his did not – the effigy once more rising from its beseeched landing like a wounded, dying animal; and roaring with no voice, no sound. It whipped along and came at her, the arrows in its threshold now becoming a cantankerous edge to its existence. What would she do when faced with something that had yet to give in? That wanted her to die as badly as she wanted it to succumb?
Deimos could grant her these movements, these motions, but not much more. The real test would be in that hellhole, where she’d be forced to face a completely different range of demons.
Despite her arrows volleying, building quite an array within the target (it had begun to look much like a porcupine), there was no ceasing its onslaught. It had no brain. It had no way of ceasing its compulsion. It was only controlled and contorted by him, and his incantations.
After all – when did the monsters cease? When did they stop? He’d never seen it for himself. Only when he churned the guildhouse into ash and soot and cinders, when he’d taken the walls down, when he’d released the flames, the conflagration, the inferno, to eat at the world and to consume everything within – had those demons relented.
So his did not – the effigy once more rising from its beseeched landing like a wounded, dying animal; and roaring with no voice, no sound. It whipped along and came at her, the arrows in its threshold now becoming a cantankerous edge to its existence. What would she do when faced with something that had yet to give in? That wanted her to die as badly as she wanted it to succumb?
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
