DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
His brows lifted sharply at her insinuation, twisting his head back to meet her gaze in a rare moment of surprise, before they fell to their residual reticence. Half a smile lingered in there too, wary and uncertain in its proximity, muting the sigh curling from his chest. Maybe it was the notion of one more responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders, already burdened with a multitude of other semblances and duties, that caused the doubts, the speculations, the trepidation in the back of his throat. Truth be told, the General rarely, actively pursued monsters – unless they were endangering citizens nearby, or he had the eventual run-in with one because they inevitably turned up in some manner of danger and disaster. “What would I have to do?” His tones were cautious, perhaps overly so, not inclining into one array or another; calculating, as he so often did.
Deimos managed to prosper a light laugh though, when he recalled he did have some additional pieces to add to her notebooks. “I came across something in the Mistbanks that might be interesting.” Instead of rifling through his pockets, he merely produced a piece of parchment and charcoal in his hands, contorted, created quickly, simply, leaning down to construct the drawing of the water-borne equine. “Rose out of the lake. Offered me a ride,” another chuckle for distinction, as he bolded the lines of its mane, and then handed it over to the guildmaster. Thereafter, to both of their credits, somehow there was some of the liquor left, and he poured the dregs and remains into her glass, passing it back.
Deimos managed to prosper a light laugh though, when he recalled he did have some additional pieces to add to her notebooks. “I came across something in the Mistbanks that might be interesting.” Instead of rifling through his pockets, he merely produced a piece of parchment and charcoal in his hands, contorted, created quickly, simply, leaning down to construct the drawing of the water-borne equine. “Rose out of the lake. Offered me a ride,” another chuckle for distinction, as he bolded the lines of its mane, and then handed it over to the guildmaster. Thereafter, to both of their credits, somehow there was some of the liquor left, and he poured the dregs and remains into her glass, passing it back.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
