DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Belial took the grandiose gestures of wings spread as something incendiary, and sneered from beneath Zuriel’s barrel. The unicorn, for her part, remained completely unaffected by either display, glancing towards each individual as if she was very put upon by the charade. In their silent accord, Deimos reassured her of many treaters later, when all of this was said and done.
The Sword arched a brow at the dragon’s response, inwardly bemused by its revelations and then response. Another rumble, and his own efficient grumble resounded and ricocheted, reverberating easily, as if it were merely orchestrated by breathing. Deimos. A momentary pause, instilling the polite indications his mother had taught him long, long ago through many, many lessons. Who are you?
When those courtesies were complete, his eyes shifted back to Seren – tilting his head again at the suspicion seeming to be rooted and pinpointed on his person. Maybe she’d seen and heard too many deflections; knew the nuances for what they were worth (nothing; distracted filaments and means to ends). That Ronin was here was a surprise, or the fact that he just rode around on clouds. His jaw slacked for a moment, thinking to make a comment, and then not pursuing it. There’d been far stranger things seen and heard in a world full of magic.
Deimos could lean into the quest from Safrin and the necessity of ice anyway. “I see.” Which he didn’t; not really. There were far easier ways to grasp the element, but if she insisted on the pickaxe and her own muster, he wasn’t about to stop her. “What are you pursuing for your quest?” Easier inquiries perhaps, and then there was no room to reflect on any of his latest dilemmas; age-old practices.
And at her attempt to dig in further, he didn’t yield. Just a very strained smile, a nod of his head; he didn’t know her well enough to trust or confide. “Yes.”
The Sword arched a brow at the dragon’s response, inwardly bemused by its revelations and then response. Another rumble, and his own efficient grumble resounded and ricocheted, reverberating easily, as if it were merely orchestrated by breathing. Deimos. A momentary pause, instilling the polite indications his mother had taught him long, long ago through many, many lessons. Who are you?
When those courtesies were complete, his eyes shifted back to Seren – tilting his head again at the suspicion seeming to be rooted and pinpointed on his person. Maybe she’d seen and heard too many deflections; knew the nuances for what they were worth (nothing; distracted filaments and means to ends). That Ronin was here was a surprise, or the fact that he just rode around on clouds. His jaw slacked for a moment, thinking to make a comment, and then not pursuing it. There’d been far stranger things seen and heard in a world full of magic.
Deimos could lean into the quest from Safrin and the necessity of ice anyway. “I see.” Which he didn’t; not really. There were far easier ways to grasp the element, but if she insisted on the pickaxe and her own muster, he wasn’t about to stop her. “What are you pursuing for your quest?” Easier inquiries perhaps, and then there was no room to reflect on any of his latest dilemmas; age-old practices.
And at her attempt to dig in further, he didn’t yield. Just a very strained smile, a nod of his head; he didn’t know her well enough to trust or confide. “Yes.”
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
