[se] came back alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He hadn’t noticed Elide; too occupied with the stones, with the wall, and now the puddle and Belial’s antics, and there was half a semblance where he might’ve winced at the implications of disturbing another’s work. The Sword chanced a glance towards the voice, stare flickering back to the Ascended with regret already audibly concentrated behind his teeth. “My apologies,” and he clicked his mouth shut – multitudes of things forming in his mind. Instead of voicing any of them, the General notched another silent warning to Belial. The peryton felt the pulse, lifting his head from the rise of droplets cascading all around him; impulsive where Deimos so frequently wasn’t, it hadn’t seemed to dawn on the youth to even process the nuances and gathering of others nearby. A very quiet chiding ambled through, and the deer had the wherewithal to appear very sheepish, ceasing, the puddle up to his little fetlocks, wings diminished and askew, head lowered. “Quite,” he sighed, permitting the companion to make a quick escape before anything else was mottled and mired. From the corner of his eyes, he glanced at the book held in her hands, and didn’t craft a smile. “Is your work ruined?” And within a moment thereafter, he concocted mastered water incantations – striving to summon the barrage, the soaking prowess, out of the pages, out of the paper, before it was too late, drawing, drawing, drawing it all back into the ether. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace