DEIMOS
what tried to destroy you
didn't have the strength
didn't have the strength
The Sword, nor the Reaper, had never known any land to be peaceful. Perhaps that said more on his way of life than realms overall - but it was often only a manner of time until something occurred, happened, pulling, pushing, the world into some frenzy of mayhem, chaos, or semblances loitering in between. So he nodded politely, understanding semblances of cliffs (for he’d once lived within a mist quite similar; with the battering waves rolling against the Edge’s ridges), order, and an unreasonable accord with magic. There was no sneering, no jeering, no rolling of his eyes – he’d heard the gestures all before, and still didn’t care. There was no shame for who and what he was, and the incantations he could unfurl.
He rounded the edges of the twin monoliths, hands placing them exactly where they would have guarded the gates and borders, and then began to line the boundaries with manifested pine, encouraging bristles and needles to sculpt and shape themselves within the snow. Deimos did notice the way she looked away, hiding under the telltale scrutiny. He might’ve laughed again, but had no intention of encouraging the entanglements – considering the likely age differences and experiences in his mind – keeping his head down thereafter, quiet and contemplative.
If it was a transactional recourse, that he could fathom and understand. How many times had he done the same, for those who’d saved and mended? “I presume you tried thanking him first?” A mild tease, and his eyes still didn’t glance upward, piercing stare concentrating hard on one particular sanction of his Basin vestiges. “He may not want anything at all.” No expectation on the notion; an everyday experience for the councilman. “But hunters typically need to sharpen their tools. You might be able to find a whetstone in the market.” Simple, easy, practical.
He rounded the edges of the twin monoliths, hands placing them exactly where they would have guarded the gates and borders, and then began to line the boundaries with manifested pine, encouraging bristles and needles to sculpt and shape themselves within the snow. Deimos did notice the way she looked away, hiding under the telltale scrutiny. He might’ve laughed again, but had no intention of encouraging the entanglements – considering the likely age differences and experiences in his mind – keeping his head down thereafter, quiet and contemplative.
If it was a transactional recourse, that he could fathom and understand. How many times had he done the same, for those who’d saved and mended? “I presume you tried thanking him first?” A mild tease, and his eyes still didn’t glance upward, piercing stare concentrating hard on one particular sanction of his Basin vestiges. “He may not want anything at all.” No expectation on the notion; an everyday experience for the councilman. “But hunters typically need to sharpen their tools. You might be able to find a whetstone in the market.” Simple, easy, practical.
still you stand
sturdy and smelling of smoke
sturdy and smelling of smoke
