[se] came back alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sometimes Deimos forgot his laughter was rare – but when it was obtained it was a deep, rumbling thing that was wild in its exuberance and exhilaration, as if finally permitted to exist. It echoed off the Citadel walls and scared a few ningos away, but he was comfortable, content, alive, instead of wallowing and grieving, instead of chasing after the past like he could have it again. Instead of lingering in all those self-loathing halls, where doubt and anguish bound him to despair, to tied, tethered, and gnarled knots and he couldn’t see beyond it. This was a moment in the present and nothing else; reeling chuckles, and stupid antics with friends. He lifted his head up at her intended surrender, another round of laughter exuding from his chest, indifferent to the way the water continued to spill down his face, features, and front; soaked, and bowing at the designation of his lordly reign over the puddles. Belial was inclined to disagree, stomping through the center, but his little hooves had no comparison to the sieges thereafter. And once more, the Sword wasn’t prepared for the blast, too busy with his head down, mocking in his pretenses. The water rippled from her movements, reverberating in the expanse until his side was drenched, cold, chilling, his furs beyond soaked now. He could feel the droplets begin to flicker inward on the rest of his clothing, and it still prompted nothing more than a chuckle, and complete, utter goading. “Treason!” A holler, a shout, and then he followed, instigating the incantations now – the water rising, rising, rising at his discretion, and then deliberately dumping portions over her head. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace