DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
A rough, hollowed laugh escaped his throat, shaking his head; dangerous and loathsome and very near contemptuous. “They would not care either.” Because at the very core, they’d taken and taken and taken with smiles on their faces, and he’d let them. He’d run himself into the ground again and again and again – once until he perished, and now, where he was finally beginning to carve something out of nothing. And this selfish idiot before him, with his hands out, with his snarls, with his own vehemence, was not about to be granted anything but the Sword’s abhorrence.
He breathed and felt it quake within his chest, waiting. Idle. Ready. And it would’ve been such a delight to set the fool’s fears into fruition, to cater to the fire inside him, to unleash and unfurl and drench everything around them in flames. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to the whining, the egocentric wails, the little, trivial, insignificant snarls. Tempting, enticing. But he let it simmer there, right under the surface of his skin, willing and able, while Nate continued and carried on, about a decision he had made. “I gave you an alternative from my experiences, and the means to shield yourself from it.” His eyes went to the jacket – but the gaze was piercing, puncturing. “You chose to be offended.”
Then he lifted his jaw, seditious and defiant, every inch the heathen, the hellion, he’d been before – spreading irreverence with his existence, turning and twisting, staring out into the horizon, across the mist, at the approaching equine. “I am no longer catering to those who think I exist solely to give them what they want.” The Nates. The Wraiths. The grubby little palms reaching and plucking and waiting. “Perhaps that starts here.”
As for the pale, likely impending doomsday horse, at the very least it wasn’t asking for anything. He watched the mist pool around in plumes, sighing half-heartedly at the wake of all this ridiculousness. Reaching into his pockets, he found a carrot clearly reserved for Zuriel, but she wouldn’t know it had gone missing. Breaking it into pieces, he offered one portion to the animal, palm out and flat, a low rumble curling through Attuned aspects. No, thank you he gave in response – no need for a ride today. And he does not know how, tossing his head, indicating sullen Nate. If Deimos were in a better mood, if he hadn’t been reduced to these filaments, he might’ve given advice to the Ascended. Instead, it remained empty and gone.
He breathed and felt it quake within his chest, waiting. Idle. Ready. And it would’ve been such a delight to set the fool’s fears into fruition, to cater to the fire inside him, to unleash and unfurl and drench everything around them in flames. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to the whining, the egocentric wails, the little, trivial, insignificant snarls. Tempting, enticing. But he let it simmer there, right under the surface of his skin, willing and able, while Nate continued and carried on, about a decision he had made. “I gave you an alternative from my experiences, and the means to shield yourself from it.” His eyes went to the jacket – but the gaze was piercing, puncturing. “You chose to be offended.”
Then he lifted his jaw, seditious and defiant, every inch the heathen, the hellion, he’d been before – spreading irreverence with his existence, turning and twisting, staring out into the horizon, across the mist, at the approaching equine. “I am no longer catering to those who think I exist solely to give them what they want.” The Nates. The Wraiths. The grubby little palms reaching and plucking and waiting. “Perhaps that starts here.”
As for the pale, likely impending doomsday horse, at the very least it wasn’t asking for anything. He watched the mist pool around in plumes, sighing half-heartedly at the wake of all this ridiculousness. Reaching into his pockets, he found a carrot clearly reserved for Zuriel, but she wouldn’t know it had gone missing. Breaking it into pieces, he offered one portion to the animal, palm out and flat, a low rumble curling through Attuned aspects. No, thank you he gave in response – no need for a ride today. And he does not know how, tossing his head, indicating sullen Nate. If Deimos were in a better mood, if he hadn’t been reduced to these filaments, he might’ve given advice to the Ascended. Instead, it remained empty and gone.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
