DEIMOS
surviving is never beautiful
its blood on your hands and face
its blood on your hands and face
Deimos didn’t quite understand why she seemed so determined to maul the jungle as she went through. Their marks into this world should’ve been insubstantial at best. He didn’t mind the dangling vines and swathes of roots, for this was where they’d been embedded, grown, and taken root. His eyes narrowed briefly, contemplating, before unfurling the earthen incantations again, compelling the briefest of movements towards the fronds, the greenery, just enough for them to pass along, and then return to normal. Nothing damaged. Nothing outdone.
Perhaps with a home of such warren hazes, she thought nothing of it. Habitual, to slide her knife across the verdant apertures. The Sword did manage a snort at the following statement. “Give it enough time.” He’d been in and amongst too many eaves here, too many broken, barbed wakes, to believe anything innocent was sequestered within. There were always monsters. There were always threats. There were always omens. Whether or not they stumbled upon something might be a matter of fortune, luck, and lack thereof. The monolith had the latter, more often than the former.
He could briefly hear Belial’s wings flutter above, and his piercing eyes slid briefly to a darkening plumage, tucked amongst the canopy ahead, before shaking his head, and broadening more of the elemental wares. So they lifted and anointed, so they consecrated and maneuvered, out of the range of her hunter’s scalpel.
The inquiry about his magic made him pause, but only momentarily, and then he was wandering deeper into the thickets and groves once more. What the Hidden Falls might’ve been, had they not been there solely to set it into pieces and pockets of war.
“Yes. I was born with it.” Nearly everyone had been; lingering in his blood from generations and generations of fire and water and demolition.
Perhaps with a home of such warren hazes, she thought nothing of it. Habitual, to slide her knife across the verdant apertures. The Sword did manage a snort at the following statement. “Give it enough time.” He’d been in and amongst too many eaves here, too many broken, barbed wakes, to believe anything innocent was sequestered within. There were always monsters. There were always threats. There were always omens. Whether or not they stumbled upon something might be a matter of fortune, luck, and lack thereof. The monolith had the latter, more often than the former.
He could briefly hear Belial’s wings flutter above, and his piercing eyes slid briefly to a darkening plumage, tucked amongst the canopy ahead, before shaking his head, and broadening more of the elemental wares. So they lifted and anointed, so they consecrated and maneuvered, out of the range of her hunter’s scalpel.
The inquiry about his magic made him pause, but only momentarily, and then he was wandering deeper into the thickets and groves once more. What the Hidden Falls might’ve been, had they not been there solely to set it into pieces and pockets of war.
“Yes. I was born with it.” Nearly everyone had been; lingering in his blood from generations and generations of fire and water and demolition.
it's fear and feeling numb at the same time
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
