DEIMOS
what tried to destroy you
didn't have the strength
didn't have the strength
Another twitch of his lips indicated he was striving not to laugh outright, hiding the insinuations with another bowing of his head, or scratching Belial behind his ears as the peryton walked around to inspect a world he’d never been a part of. Zuriel stood guard, dutifully unimpressed with the entire multitude, but Deimos reserved a fair bit of judgment until the next inquiry echoed through.
This time he couldn’t mute the snort that bombarded through his throat and chest. “Depends on the person.” Perhaps he had a standard of gifts given and granted, but he rendered them to the entity, to the soul, rather than encompassing them all by gender or some other neutrality. Maybe this was Seren’s youth proclaiming some form of confusion – uncertain, presumptuous, lumping people together rather than separating them from wholes and units. His voice followed through, not mocking as he placed another section of the valley, elongating territories and terrain, but quiet, composed. “We are all individuals.” Only then did he tilt his cranium again, eyes surveying her with a piercing disposition, one brow arching, meant to be an insinuation, a stark reminder, for his next line. “And since this is a thank you gift, it could do nicely. If you are worried about it being plain, you can always paint it.”
A shrug wandered through his shoulders again, waiting for some kind of rampant rebuttal. If she didn’t like the whetstone notions, she could always find something else in the markets. “Or if anything was damaged when he rescued you. You could replace it.”
This time he couldn’t mute the snort that bombarded through his throat and chest. “Depends on the person.” Perhaps he had a standard of gifts given and granted, but he rendered them to the entity, to the soul, rather than encompassing them all by gender or some other neutrality. Maybe this was Seren’s youth proclaiming some form of confusion – uncertain, presumptuous, lumping people together rather than separating them from wholes and units. His voice followed through, not mocking as he placed another section of the valley, elongating territories and terrain, but quiet, composed. “We are all individuals.” Only then did he tilt his cranium again, eyes surveying her with a piercing disposition, one brow arching, meant to be an insinuation, a stark reminder, for his next line. “And since this is a thank you gift, it could do nicely. If you are worried about it being plain, you can always paint it.”
A shrug wandered through his shoulders again, waiting for some kind of rampant rebuttal. If she didn’t like the whetstone notions, she could always find something else in the markets. “Or if anything was damaged when he rescued you. You could replace it.”
still you stand
sturdy and smelling of smoke
sturdy and smelling of smoke
