DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He needed a diamond. Knew Deimos could make things. It would be otherwise difficult to obtain.
Except it came across as so entitled, as if the Sword was apt to provide and preside simply because he could. Because materials and figments mattered. Because the Ascended required it. All these reasons, that frankly, in the midst of the mist and exasperation, didn’t matter to him in the least.
Why should he? Why should he continue to give and give and give and remain an empty vessel, while everyone else snagged and took and carried on? The General knew in some part it’d been his own fault too – for letting it go on for so long. For being that generous, tolerant beast, for being the one so easily tossed aside.
His features didn’t round into a sneer, didn’t refute any claims, didn’t distinguish in the hostility lingering in his bones; waiting for some ignition, for some kindling. “For what?” The only markings of any change might’ve been the dangerous intonations, the rumbling going deeper, unfurled and unleashed from his chest while he stared out across the water.
Fading, only slightly, when the surface maneuvered and rippled, and he extended his Mastered Air out, permitting it to take the fog, and billow over to the edges, to reveal whatever creature had managed to manifest within the threshold.
Except it came across as so entitled, as if the Sword was apt to provide and preside simply because he could. Because materials and figments mattered. Because the Ascended required it. All these reasons, that frankly, in the midst of the mist and exasperation, didn’t matter to him in the least.
Why should he? Why should he continue to give and give and give and remain an empty vessel, while everyone else snagged and took and carried on? The General knew in some part it’d been his own fault too – for letting it go on for so long. For being that generous, tolerant beast, for being the one so easily tossed aside.
His features didn’t round into a sneer, didn’t refute any claims, didn’t distinguish in the hostility lingering in his bones; waiting for some ignition, for some kindling. “For what?” The only markings of any change might’ve been the dangerous intonations, the rumbling going deeper, unfurled and unleashed from his chest while he stared out across the water.
Fading, only slightly, when the surface maneuvered and rippled, and he extended his Mastered Air out, permitting it to take the fog, and billow over to the edges, to reveal whatever creature had managed to manifest within the threshold.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
