[Training] spikey snow castles

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Another arch of his brow, another notion of thought curling and coiling through his mind. “You could always get a companion.” Deimos would’ve been lost without Zuriel well before sickness struck him down; and likely dead – perished from one of the many misadventures amidst these encompassing years. Belial was another new factor, a bridge between like souls – and he had enough room for all of them in that entity and space. At the indication of Wessex, the Sword wondered if she always had been, or if it was an alteration in viewpoints. In experiences. In the knowledge that there were other methods, other ways, of dealing with dilemmas. Or if it was simply the range of being the Voice’s demigod – and therefore, that was all that truly mattered, in the end. Nothing was ever her fault. The victim, sufferer, the casualty; forgetting those that actually were the injured or deceased parties. “Shame,” was all he could surmise from everything else – he’d had enough thoughts on the Wraith for the day. “Perhaps they will do something out about it then.” Considering Deimos had recently begun pulling back on the constant giving, generous donations, and crafting simply because someone wanted an item, with naught more than semblances of entitlement, Oliver presented a good option. “I can do that.” A swift nod – and then the blacksmith would have some business, and the Sword could be left without some biting overtures from selfish, avaricious individuals. The incantations flickering forth segmented back in brutality – though now they were distracted, vines fighting against one another’s precision and pathways. To any onlooker it might’ve been somewhat ridiculous – several of the earthen wares doing naught more than twitching in mid-movement, combatting strength and fortitude. But Oliver’s efforts served as a worthy distraction, because during the hostilities, the rocks slammed down upon several of the other roots, mauling them into nothing, dispersing and slithering back to where they’d come from. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace