DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Belial gave the first sign of Wessex’s appearance – the Sword otherwise distracted, set apart in his own head and thoughts. The precursor of another’s stance coiled along the peryton’s expanse, and the General watched the plumage of his companion’s feathers stiffen, a rigid distinction he too might have employed and regarded, given enough opportunity. Instead, he followed the line of the young deer’s sight, towards the dragon overhead, and then the Wraith herself.
“Wessex,” he nodded, the only way of greeting he could embody right now. Where to start or where to begin or where to dig further into the platitudes of where they left off – bitterness, rancor, her open and baffling, perplexing rage, and his calm, reticent, defiant void in the midst of all of it – was a complex network his machinations could only harbor and harpoon for so long on their own. The monolith warded off a sigh, because he already felt it blistering through his chest, and her silence, her accord, meant it was going to be a deluge to muddle and mire through regardless. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
His eyes went over the barracks once more, before his form turned fully towards her – hands still in pockets, portraying no hostility. No threats. No overt menace or malice. Just a beast trying to clear the enigmas.
No asking of how LongNight had fared. He’d already been granted some form of answers from Kiada and Nate. “I wanted to clear up any misunderstandings.” A prompt of sorts, he presumed, that she’d have multitudes to say, as she had the last time they’d spoken. And if not – he could always round back to that mess of a conversation.
