I carried my own ashes to the mountains
War had been synonymous with the Sword’s life since he was young. Isilme had been plains of hatred sown deep into its roots, with challenges and derision around every corner, with blistering, bestial wakes coiling from its fumes. And while he’d often basked in the sea of his birthright, it didn’t mean he’d ever be immune to the tangibilities of crusades, battles, and invasions. When duty called, he and so many others answered – time and time again – and it stretched into Helovia, where it was just a revolving door of sedition and spite, clarity and malice, vehemence and vengeance. Drums of tactics and calls to arms were in his blood, and he’d never tried to fight the siren wails, the barbaric outcries, or the banners, the emblems, the waves of armaments.
But it was not the same here – and he could understand the apprehension. The distrust. The way the earth wavered and relented, scattered and cringed, yearned to crumble or rose defiantly. All in beckoning blades, or in unpredictable, earnest columns – hoping for a sign that would never come. They could walk amongst these fields of fertile greenery now, be blinded by the beauty and not the onslaught, but for how much longer? How long would it be? What would tip the scales?
So many things had already occurred, winding and winding and winding until they’d arrived here; all waiting for something else to falter and fall into line. And Deimos kept his head high here, as Noah asked, as the filaments of potential weighed across brawn and shoulders all the more. “With the Old Gods.” Certain, sure, precise; an unwavering fortitude in the tone of his voice, in the way it carried over the grass. “I have nothing against the Ascended.” Save for Wessex, though he didn’t consider her the sole distinction of what the race stood for. She just happened to inflict and cause a number of instances. “But the Voice has caused too much damage.” Sickness after sickness, LongNight's monsters, the Mathair incident…perhaps a score of other things he’d yet to realize or understand.
His features immediately turned back to Noah then, arching a brow, breaking apart the veneer of reticence for a moment. “And you?” Where would the Attuned hunter immerse himself? Because at some point, within some layers, there would be a choice. An option. Lines drawn in the sand.
But it was not the same here – and he could understand the apprehension. The distrust. The way the earth wavered and relented, scattered and cringed, yearned to crumble or rose defiantly. All in beckoning blades, or in unpredictable, earnest columns – hoping for a sign that would never come. They could walk amongst these fields of fertile greenery now, be blinded by the beauty and not the onslaught, but for how much longer? How long would it be? What would tip the scales?
So many things had already occurred, winding and winding and winding until they’d arrived here; all waiting for something else to falter and fall into line. And Deimos kept his head high here, as Noah asked, as the filaments of potential weighed across brawn and shoulders all the more. “With the Old Gods.” Certain, sure, precise; an unwavering fortitude in the tone of his voice, in the way it carried over the grass. “I have nothing against the Ascended.” Save for Wessex, though he didn’t consider her the sole distinction of what the race stood for. She just happened to inflict and cause a number of instances. “But the Voice has caused too much damage.” Sickness after sickness, LongNight's monsters, the Mathair incident…perhaps a score of other things he’d yet to realize or understand.
His features immediately turned back to Noah then, arching a brow, breaking apart the veneer of reticence for a moment. “And you?” Where would the Attuned hunter immerse himself? Because at some point, within some layers, there would be a choice. An option. Lines drawn in the sand.
DEIMOS
