Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Deimos was incapable of hiding the grimace flooding over his face the moment Samuel noted he’d need to sing. “Sing,” he uttered, dumbfounded, like it was one of the more ridiculous requests coming out of this enigmatic world. The Reaper wasn’t a creature meant to be bursting into ditties and refrains; his singular opus and oeuvre works were canvasses and tapestries dedicated to warfare and the battlefield. They’d never been serene or tranquil either, coaxing and obliging; they’d been brutal and barbaric, streaks of red painted against dirt, soil, and earth, fire and brimstone shuddering in wakes of stains and triumphs, glories and devastations, feral defeats and savage losses. They’d represented death and finality, oblivion and condemnation, the final steps down, down, down to the wicked world below; he doubted the little luxere would be enticed by any of the nefarious works. He thought of some old drinking songs his comrades and allies would utter and call in inebriated stupors, loudly screeching and howling for the whole word to hear as they plunged swords into enemies’ chests or proclaimed another victory. He thought of the rain’s beguiling woes, and then abolished it from his mind completely, gone, erased, registering his features right back into apathy and nonchalance again. “I tried the fruit. It…exploded.” Even these scant bits of information sounded completely lame and asinine, and the beast thought about giving up the intrigue and interest altogether; it couldn’t quite possibly be worth all of this absurdity.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary