DEIMOS
Deimos would’ve thought Sunjata’s spread of duplicity as something of betrayal. Not hallmarks of alliances, armistices, or camaraderie. Maybe they meant for the word peace and naught more tacked onto it, looking, turning the other cheek when anything actually occurred. The Sword was someone to be tossed under the current; apparently no loss when it came down to it. Not in the midst of anger, hostilities, and anguish. He could hear Hotaru scoff behind him, and he tread a little further down the rocky, icy shoreline, guided only by the wind and the need for restless movement. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, bow his head now – staring at the stones for a brief interlude, before casting his glance back to her.
Hotaru’s statement earned a snort, a slight crouch as he bent down to pick up a rock, flattened and scraped down by glaciers likely thousands of years ago, rolling it along in his palm, in between calloused fingers. “Apparently.” The world was allowed their mistakes, but only so far. He could hold his, carry it along his shoulders, always had - he wasn’t certain what Morgan had been thinking in those moments, save for rampaging into anger. Where the pair of them had been casting and hurling harpoons, landing far too surely. As expected of warriors. “Perhaps I was not worth the trouble.” In one quick, swift motion, he tossed the artifact, watching it skip over portions three times, before landing with a quiet plop into the rime.
Then he sat down on one of the larger boulders, leaning into its strong, sturdy, all-encompassing existence, certain and sure where everything else was not. Her question came on tentative means, and his jaw clenched habitually, routinely, as the thoughts mulled and mired in his mind. Back to Machiavellian roots. “I think we both know.” Zuriel gave one last puff of warm air along the Valkyrie’s cheek, before meandering further down the line, picking at lingering roots beside boulders. The statement itself was cold and unyielding, understanding, comprehending, that they would have to be the same. “No more impulsive tactics. This has to be done well.”
Hotaru’s statement earned a snort, a slight crouch as he bent down to pick up a rock, flattened and scraped down by glaciers likely thousands of years ago, rolling it along in his palm, in between calloused fingers. “Apparently.” The world was allowed their mistakes, but only so far. He could hold his, carry it along his shoulders, always had - he wasn’t certain what Morgan had been thinking in those moments, save for rampaging into anger. Where the pair of them had been casting and hurling harpoons, landing far too surely. As expected of warriors. “Perhaps I was not worth the trouble.” In one quick, swift motion, he tossed the artifact, watching it skip over portions three times, before landing with a quiet plop into the rime.
Then he sat down on one of the larger boulders, leaning into its strong, sturdy, all-encompassing existence, certain and sure where everything else was not. Her question came on tentative means, and his jaw clenched habitually, routinely, as the thoughts mulled and mired in his mind. Back to Machiavellian roots. “I think we both know.” Zuriel gave one last puff of warm air along the Valkyrie’s cheek, before meandering further down the line, picking at lingering roots beside boulders. The statement itself was cold and unyielding, understanding, comprehending, that they would have to be the same. “No more impulsive tactics. This has to be done well.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
