death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
The Sword had been born into a world fit for plotting. For arranging. For configuring machinations in Machiavellian minds. The patterns came from war, from experiences, from battles, from circumstances, from loss after loss after loss, and maybe that was why he held so little regard for impulsivity. He wasn’t prone to it – not in the way he was raised. Unless it was bent into foolishness, into juvenile qualities and mischief, then he took accord with calculations and thorough intentions. Even now, in the midst of his quiet, his cranium circumvented, contorted, and coiled, listening, listening, listening, head tilted in his hushed predator mannerisms.
Waiting.
No denial of his stupidity. No rejection of alterations swayed or changed. The monolith wondered if everyone else had simply pat him on the head and said it was fine; to carry on in his onslaughts, in his recklessness, in his foolishness. Nothing learned, nothing gained, nothing weighed from these cataclysms, like all the others. No accountability, no consequences, except by those well and truly fed up.
The story sounded similar to the one Hotaru had told him, so at the very least there weren’t any lies embedded within, or figments he could skewer him upon. Instead, there were multitudes of manipulation, of compulsions and inclinations, of temptations and notions seized, without any time to mull or muse on the matter – even when deemed so important, so life-altering. And Safrin had taken his regard for the newly Ascended Demigod with such aplomb – concocting where Sunjata clearly had not. He found it bizarre, in some way. Deimos wouldn’t have trusted Sunjata with a pair of shoes, much less a child.
But then again, maybe the herald had received exactly what she’d wanted, and played the Flood like a fiddle. What could she do now, to someone already so intrinsically aligned with the Voice?
His tones rumbled thereafter, head shaking thereafter, a sigh warring its way behind his teeth. “Did you ever think Nate would be capable of saving himself? Or to ask for time?” That there might’ve been other opportunities? Other bargains? Other ways to orchestrate a proposition?
The General likely already knew the answer – a resounding, reverberating no. It echoed in the way Hotaru had been tossed aside. It pulsed in the way Nate had ceased. But on that following line, on what’s done is done, he openly sneered – the statement dangerous, treacherous, reeling through his senses. So blasé. So indifferent. So apathetic.
And he let him feel it – every ounce of his contempt, his abhorrence, his hatred, his ferocity, unwound along the Attuned bond, until it was pressing, suffocating, consuming. Callous and forbidding, seething and fiendish, his own brand of demonic art and unholy sedition, where raptorial predilections longed and yearned to cut and tear, rip him apart from the inside out. Treacherous, licentious credences and considerations, blistering in heathen brushstrokes, in fathoms no one had yet truly seen or felt within Caido. Not since he’d gone across the Basin, chasing down threats. He leaned forward, just an inch, all monstrous animosity. “The only thing saving you from my wrath is that child.” That Sunjata would use her as a shield, as a buffer, wasn’t a surprise at all.
Waiting.
No denial of his stupidity. No rejection of alterations swayed or changed. The monolith wondered if everyone else had simply pat him on the head and said it was fine; to carry on in his onslaughts, in his recklessness, in his foolishness. Nothing learned, nothing gained, nothing weighed from these cataclysms, like all the others. No accountability, no consequences, except by those well and truly fed up.
The story sounded similar to the one Hotaru had told him, so at the very least there weren’t any lies embedded within, or figments he could skewer him upon. Instead, there were multitudes of manipulation, of compulsions and inclinations, of temptations and notions seized, without any time to mull or muse on the matter – even when deemed so important, so life-altering. And Safrin had taken his regard for the newly Ascended Demigod with such aplomb – concocting where Sunjata clearly had not. He found it bizarre, in some way. Deimos wouldn’t have trusted Sunjata with a pair of shoes, much less a child.
But then again, maybe the herald had received exactly what she’d wanted, and played the Flood like a fiddle. What could she do now, to someone already so intrinsically aligned with the Voice?
His tones rumbled thereafter, head shaking thereafter, a sigh warring its way behind his teeth. “Did you ever think Nate would be capable of saving himself? Or to ask for time?” That there might’ve been other opportunities? Other bargains? Other ways to orchestrate a proposition?
The General likely already knew the answer – a resounding, reverberating no. It echoed in the way Hotaru had been tossed aside. It pulsed in the way Nate had ceased. But on that following line, on what’s done is done, he openly sneered – the statement dangerous, treacherous, reeling through his senses. So blasé. So indifferent. So apathetic.
And he let him feel it – every ounce of his contempt, his abhorrence, his hatred, his ferocity, unwound along the Attuned bond, until it was pressing, suffocating, consuming. Callous and forbidding, seething and fiendish, his own brand of demonic art and unholy sedition, where raptorial predilections longed and yearned to cut and tear, rip him apart from the inside out. Treacherous, licentious credences and considerations, blistering in heathen brushstrokes, in fathoms no one had yet truly seen or felt within Caido. Not since he’d gone across the Basin, chasing down threats. He leaned forward, just an inch, all monstrous animosity. “The only thing saving you from my wrath is that child.” That Sunjata would use her as a shield, as a buffer, wasn’t a surprise at all.
DEIMOS
