redemption burns hot and bright

What else is there to but train and draw up designs? Ideas run through her head and she occasionally steps out to ask others some questions - Is this feasible? and what dangers do you see with this? It’s as if the Wraith is trying to outsmart a bunch of unpredictable, uncontrollable spirits (she absolutely is)- and, well, we all know that’s unlikely to happen. Futile as it may be, she has to try. Eventually it’s just time to head to Halo and see the Sword; there’s little more she can do, other than turn her own brain inside out. Though Wessex is no creator, she knows that the people wielding the tools often have the best idea of what can and cannot be done. Besides, there are other things to try and bring, people to see - the sooner she goes, the quicker she can get back here. Grabbing a few items, the Wraith pops into Halo and asks the nearest person where to find Deimos. They point in her in the direction of the new barracks and it isn’t long before she’s knocking on his door. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Dusk fell, and with its inkling of darkness, Deimos took it as a sign to traverse home. Away from the Council Hall, away from the noise and cacophony of a position he didn’t want, and towards the barracks, to a place where clanging metal and stinging steel sounded like sanctums and sanctuaries. Upon entering, he found the training venue quiet – most of the guards had returned to either their duties or elsewhere. Only a few remained behind, working on techniques with bows, staffs, or blades, and he bid them hushed nods as he wandered through. The Sword hastened back to the front parlor, greeting Zuriel with a tired grin, glancing at the fire in the hearth, raising it with little effort to new, grander heights, watching as the unicorn curled further into its midst.

From there, he could sit down, process a few other nuances and notions he craved to coordinate. Ideally, designing or implementing some sort of artifact Kiada would want to take with her, now that the telling of LongNight was clear. The monolith tried to ease a breath from his lungs at the thought; striving to consolidate, to push it all aside, to not let the sentiments, the ruminations, brim and overwhelm, rush into another drowning interval. But the dread, consternation, and apprehension were real, and struggled to be denied.

No sooner had he sat down at the long table, with its vast, empty space, suitable for meetings that wouldn’t likely take place this season, then there was a knock at the door. No one who had business with the barracks on a regular basis rapped their knuckles against the wood; it was commonplace for many to thread their way through, passing along halls and threading through to get to their own portion of apartments, the armory, or clash, duel, and skirmish in the appropriate venue.

He tilted his head and rose, opening the door wide, to see Wessex.

An expected visitor – some eventuality. Which meant time was beginning to erode and claw far more than any other nettles, and he stepped aside, granting her room to enter. “Wessex,” he nodded, indicating seats available nearby. The temporary Warden could feel Zuriel’s eyes on him, and he didn’t maneuver his head or incline towards her, muffling a harsh intake of breath as he steeled the resolve all over again. A stoic endeavor settled across his features, utterly impassive, devoid of the multitude of emotions warring across bones and veins. “I take it you have decided on an item.”

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

The Wraith may be ill-equipped to navigate the nuances of emotional conversations, but she is well aware of the Sword’s disdain for her. She’d have to be blind to miss it. Some unexpected feelings about that and its hypocrisy rise as she knocks on the door (strange how face-to-face births the unexpected - it’s so much easier to minimize something from afar) and the Queen struggles to quell them, determined to keep this civil and brief. She has quite a few things to do while in Halo, and there’s no point in being rude to someone who’s helping her - and many others - out. A thin-lipped, polite smile greets the man as he opens the door. “Deimos.” Stepping quickly into the building, she shakes off the snow accumulation and moves towards the offered seats. “We have. Thanks in advance for your help.” Pointedly using we instead of I, she involves all of the Ascended in this, in some way or another. “I had originally thought a cannon that could shoot a fire net, or an invisible  catapult, but recently I’ve been thinking of something more mobile. A crossbow that can make every arrow a fire arrow?” Positing the question to him, the creator, she subtly asks for his input while laying out her thoughts on the matter. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

A poised look of absolute indifference and apathy remained on his features – well-practiced, well-versed, from days of Reaper indentations. They aligned now, in the straight, rigid maneuvers of his spine, remembering, recalling, diplomacy and his contempt towards it. Now he reflected no emotion whatsoever, a chiseled slate of scars and countenance, facing the Wraith with precision, might, and quiet speculation over the wiles and weapons sought. Zuriel slid her way over, near his side, and he had no thought or nuance as to why – though her stare seemed far more pinpointed on Wessex now.

Rendered back into silent musings, the beast arched one brow – cannons and fire nets, invisible catapults, and then onto mobility. True, it would likely be difficult to transport such devises from place to place, and quickly along the Hollowed Grounds – and speed was something they’d require in the midst of battle. “I can make a quiver that does the same.” Whether or not the Ascended would be able to handle the material, or not become immersed in friendly fire, was something else to consider – but if that was what she and the others wanted…

He didn’t shrug. Instead, he grabbed hold of a piece of paper nearby, charcoal pencil following through, as he began to orchestrate a sketch – the positions of the crossbow, the angles necessary, the lines dictated. When he’d completed it, he handed the canvas over to her for inspection. “Suitable?”

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

Mentally chewing over the same concerns Deimos has regarding the fire, Wessex manages to wait until he’s finished sketching it to ask about a small adjustment. She studies the finished product, nodding thoughtfully as she recognizes the weapon and its standard form. “Actually,” the Queen begins, “Could you make it so the arrow lights when it’s nocked? Maybe drawing the string back as the trigger? That way we can keep the flame tip away from us until we’re ready to shoot?” In theory, at least. Who knows what might hit them in the heat of the battle, or if a couple more seconds without light will hide them better, or if they’ll end up needing more. All the Wraith knows is that drawing a flaming quarrel from the quiver sounds a little dangerous for the majority of her family. For her too, even, so it might be best to mitigate that as much as possible. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Inscrutable, save for the puncturing weight of his stare, the monolith waited for the judgment to pass, the scrutiny to oblige. Whether he was surprised or not by the alterations, he said naught – Zuriel aired a snort of frustration, an evident toss of her head, a haughty, arrogant, directed look towards the Wraith, while he began to make changes. “So the crossbow will be the one containing the magic,” he extended, ensuring he had an understanding of what she wanted. The arrows, nor the quiver, would matter – save for the wooden mechanism itself. He placed the paper down on the table, little scratches made over details, new notes rendered in corners, labels on the push and pull of the notch. “Any arrow placed within will be ignited.” A pull of a string. A firing of a trigger.

He offered the notations back, the adjustments and modifications rendered – waiting for the final verdict, so that he might complete what they required.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

Wessex doesn’t speak horse - err, unicorn. Zuriel’s snort earns a look in her direction, but the if the companion has any feelings about her being there, the Wraith is oblivious to it. Her focus is solely on the item at hand. A satisfied, grim expression indicates her approval. “Exactly. Thank you, that’s great.” Verbally signing off on the weapon, it’s all on her if it falls to pieces (it was always going to be on her, but the various decisions she’s had to make lately are growing and growing and seem impossibly high now). While Deimos makes the weapon, her gaze turns inward, contemplating distant actions and possibilities, her hand reaching into a small sack to close around the crystal Remi had made. She knows what’s inside and is loathe to part with it. Some part of her thinks she ought to have used it by now, but… she hasn’t. Hotaru still exists within. Setting it down gently on the table, she watches as it glints and flickers in the firelight. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Perhaps it was for the best. The Wraith likely wouldn’t enjoy what Zuriel had to say anyway.

Keeping the unicorn’s thoughts to himself, with the acceptance mustered, Deimos set to work. Placing the paper down, glancing back over the inscriptions, notes, labels, and gradients, he spread his hands apart. Concentration honed, the magic stirred between his palms, golden and glowing, fixtures to represent the assemblage taking place. The incantations unfurled with little issue, content and obliging, springing forth amongst and amidst the woodwork beginning to form, the spaces of triggering mechanisms and potent volleys, metal bands and timber-lined orchestrations. There was no need for adornments or designs to signify ownership; he presumed this model would be passed down from fighter to fighter, whoever intended to engage with their monstrous enemies.

And then, when it was solid and tangible, in his grasp, he instilled the fire, the flames, embedding the curl of smoke and fumes, of conflagrations and upheaval, the touch of seditious efforts. When it was finished, all the midst of silence and hushed platitudes, he lifted his gaze from the crossbow, and to the crystal suddenly placed on the table. An arch to his brow was the only hint to his curiosity, or inquiry towards its appearance – extending the weapon towards her to take.

--

Deimos has made:
Infernbow: A wooden crossbow with the ability to set any arrows placed within to ignite on the pull of its trigger.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

Gods, that kind of creation is fascinating. Wessex can feel the magic as he uses it, creation and fire and whatever else he might need to craft such things. Resisting the urge to use it (on nothing, just to feel it in her), there is nevertheless a kind of awe written on her face when the Sword turns back to her. Oh, she’s known for a while that Deimos is immensely powerful, but there’s something about creation that gets her. It always will. “That was cool,” she says. Because it was, and why not acknowledge that? Ignoring the crystal for a moment, she reaches out for the crossbow and runs her fingers down the shaft and along the edges. Hopefully this will help. It has to. Her gaze lifts back up to his and she murmurs a sincere “Thank you,” setting it down on the table. “Two more things and then I’ll be out of your hair. Morgan wants to make sure you’re doing well. Should I tell her anything?” A pause, to allow him to say yes or no, or hell, even nothing at all. She’d carry the message faithfully. And then... “I have this crystal from Remi that stores magic. Loren’s missing otherwise I would ask to borrow his feather… which leaves you as the only one I know who’s able to burn down a building. Would it be too much to ask for you to fill it with fire? I’d like to give it to one of the younger Ascended.” Isla, perhaps, as the responsible adult. Or Azrael, as the one she'd like to protect the most. Mabel, as the most daring. Aamu, as the experienced weapon. Any of them. All of them - yes, she wishes she could equip all of them with magic. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

The Sword never quite knew what to expect with the Wraith – other than fighting endeavors, which they had in common. It certainly wasn’t the admiration or esteem in her gaze, when he finally met hers. Uncertain what to do with it, he merely arched a brow, and then resettled back into his countenance, the barest form of a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.” And a nod for her acknowledgments, before tilting his head at the following ventures.

That Morgan was checking up on him was either a sign of distrust or extension of amiability. Given how irritated and cross he’d been before she left for the Grounds, and he’d been placed (forced) into a role he hadn’t ever wanted again, Deimos opted for the latter. He could, at the very least, assure her he hadn’t yet run her kingdom into the ground. “I will write a note.” There were some other nuances to share anyway – and he tampered, quelled, the brimming semblance of indignation bearing its weight in his chest once more. He maneuvered around the table and towards his desk, standing, bending only slightly to apply his pen to the paper left there – when he raised his head at the other notion.

A crystal from Remi – it must have been made ages before. Some unwinding nuance of nostalgia for yesteryears tightened over him, before that too was gone, for he’d been trying to live in the present. He snorted at the indication of being capable of burning down a building; LongNight history still clear and present as ever in the back of his mind. “I can.” He finished off a portion of his writing, and lifted a hand out to take the device. His bare bones knowledge of what they were going to do (little, if anything, beyond maiming monsters and trying to survive) instigated the slightest arch of his brow. “How are plans going?”

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

How are plans going? The one question that reaches into the cracks of her armor and can bring her to her knees. Out of all the people she knows, Deimos would be the most likely to be able to help them, and he is no longer quite on their side. In this, yes, she imagines he might be a good person to run strategy by. But he isn’t like Sunjata. What could she tell him now that wouldn’t potentially be used against them later? Her lips twist into a grim expression and she looks over at him with a sliver of rare vulnerability. “We recently found out they have a hive mind. Right after we’d begun to make plans for a fake house to trap and burn them in. So once one Monster figures it out, the rest will know.” A brief pause. “We're making structures to hide in, prepping the Barracks and MHG, but half of us don’t seem to be taking preparations seriously. And time is running out.” She shrugs, tightening back up again. They both know they can’t make people do anything, but when someone inevitably dies, the blame will fall on her shoulders. Even if they did nothing to help themselves. Even if they didn’t follow orders. They’ll still blame her. Even though she needed the rest, she still feels like she shouldn’t have taken it. Come back earlier. Done something. She’d tried to prepare, but what can you do when your second-in-command also goes missing. “Any suggestions?” the Wraith asks brightly, trying to push that sense of despair and foreboding away? “Other than literally locking everyone inside and trying to take them all on myself?” A bitter chuckle trickles out - because hey, she absolutely would do it it if she could. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

The Sword didn’t expect the brief diminishing of armor from the Wraith. But he didn’t chide her for it either, didn’t pierce into the shell of what remained, didn’t pull apart seams and strayed ends likely already frayed. The monolith knew what it meant for plans to go awry. He knew what it meant to try and strive to protect those loved and cherished and to have it all backfire, destroy, and root himself into despair. Even a year later, it still burned, despite forgiveness, despite angles and a blame not placed upon his shoulders – he carried it with him regardless.

Could the world change things again? Certainly. Other things brewed across the horizon. Ominous wakes scattered ambitions and aspirations they thought they’d known so well. Realms shifted, altered, and changed every day. Deimos schemed. He plotted. He calculated. He’d learned from an early age to instill those fibers of potential and prowess and coldblooded nature deep inside his bones – so perhaps she had a right to be cautious. But for these moments, these bare, minimal instances, these were just strategies and schemes for a week where survival was imminent. One where Kiada was headed, where friends were caught in the crosshairs.

He gave no indication of anything but perusal and thought as his eyes narrowed, gazing down at the crystal in his hands, listening to the latest information. A hive mind. Fake houses to trap and burn them in. What they’d once actively avoided now being utilized as a mechanism for destruction. It sounded foolish. It sounded like it hinged on too much fortune and luck, something they rarely had during LongNight.

His experiences, his suggestions, might not even matter. They’d always tried to stay under the radar, save for the year where they all opened the door multiple times (and look what happened there). He had weapons and incantations to muster. He had shielding capabilities. He had an overprotective foundation. Were they given the option, he likely would’ve been one of the individuals volunteering to chase down the demons. But they weren’t, and he was here, guarding Halo instead. From his stature at the desk, the note unfinished, he pondered and speculated. “Where will your weakest be?” The ones newly resurrected and renewed, the ones who had followed the Voice straight out of other dimensions. Were they to be instant sacrifices? Her suggestion, while clearly rancorous and maybe a little asinine, gave him some pause. “How do you intend to lure them? Draw them in?” Because wouldn’t she with so many upgrades and powers and potency at her disposal, be one they’d seek out first? Wouldn’t she want the fiends away from those most likely to succumb?

Uncertain – the whole damned thing was a cataclysm waiting to happen – he only stared down at the crystal, intrigued by the weight and glimmer of it. “Is there some magic already inside?”

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead

“In the Barracks for as long as possible,” she replies. “We all want to keep their involvement to a minimum. But if and when they have to go out, paired with a stronger Ascended. “ At least that’s the plan in her head. Except for her and Neron, who will likely be headed into the thick of it. Gods, what she wouldn’t do to hear Amun call her Princess and tell her she’s doing all she can. Not quite robotically, but quickly and with answers that have obviously been given quite a bit of (obsessive) thought, she roughly outlines the plan. “Me, primarily. And a couple of the other older, faster Ascended. We run, bringing them in from the Outskirts, Sanctuary and Fields, to the Ruins. Then it’s just me. Keeping them in a fake house. Somehow. Until I can teleport out and we burn it.” She shrugs. “At least that’s what it would be in a perfect world.” And this world is far, far from perfect. There are so many things that can go wrong, no plan would solve them all, not unless they all were superpowered demigods. Her gaze follows his down to the crystal, where she smiles sadly and nods. “Yeah. Hotaru’s lightning. I got it for our lightning storm expedition and just -” drifting off, her eyes never leave the magical prison; the last thing she has of the last person she’d begun to catch feelings for. It was hard to let go. But she would - for her family. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

The Sword listened – quiet, composed, and shrewd – but he had no other leads or alternatives to provide. It sounded foolish, dangerous, and like some measure of impending doom. One false step, one plan gone awry, and any number of them could be destroyed. How would one weaker Ascended be paired with a stronger, if the others were set to run ahead and be lures? Where were they to go, once Wessex had set herself as a target? The anomalies coiled through his head, attempting an image, a picture, of the debacle. “What will you do if the monsters figure it out?” What were the alternatives? Was there a secondary plan? Or would it all erupt, careen, and unfurl into complete chaos, a measure of bedlam where many could be lost?

Like Kiada. Like Bastien. Like Azrael. Like Elide. Like Morgan. The list could’ve gone on and on and on, mentally ticking off compatriots, brethren, kin, and family. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flickered back to the crystal in his hand, the frustration building and brewing. He could feel it rising over the cold, glacial aspect of his lungs; age-old Reaper undulations conspiring, wanting to lay out an unrelenting siege –

And the notions became no better once she confessed whose magic remained nestled in his palm, on the reasons nestled and torn. The threat of a growl hastened in his chest, burrowing and segmenting – not released, not relished, not savored, but defiant and irritated nonetheless. She’d kept it contained. She’d had ample opportunities to utilize it – when Amalia had been above ground, risking her life, trying to direct a herd of unicorns to reaches of safety. When they’d all been staring into the void, uncertain of how or when to cross. Before he’d had to dig them all into the guttural expanse, and hardly get anywhere at all. The Sword bit back an oath, measured, calculating eyes on the Wraith, a shake of his head following. “So now it will go to waste instead. When you could have used it to some benefit.”

Hotaru had granted, given, her those enchantments and incantations. And now they were going to disappear; flickering beams of power and light, gone.

A part of him might’ve told her what he’d learned. That Hotaru was alive. That neither Ludo nor Mort led her into the realm of death. That she had lingered in typical Ru habits; sequestering herself somewhere until she saw fit to meander again.

But vexed by Wessex’s decisions, and wondering how many damned times something similar had occurred, the beast placed the artifact down on his desk. For half a moment, he said naught more, scrawling out the rest of his message to Morgan, puncturing and piercing a few words a little deeper, a little bolder, and then folding it over, tucking it under his hand. Only then did he pick the crystal back up, a warning in his narrowed, hardened gaze, none of his magic extended into it, not yet, not until he heard the words conveyed, assured. “I want this used. Not kept. Not hoarded. Used.”

So that those caught in this hellhole might survive to see another season.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead