DEIMOS
The Sword was full of misgivings about the mysterious invitations. It sounded like the potential for ruin, for disaster, for all matter and manner of things that had occurred in past celebrations and feasts. One didn’t so easily forget dead brethren coming back to life, or utter devastation rampantly distorted across wide open fields; the sounds of screams, the blatant outcry of injustices and blood staining long blades of grass.He opted for flight, taking his bag with him in between his talons, keeping close to shadows and darkness as the sun set, burning through the canvas of the horizon. He soared over the void and kept to himself, noting a few new noteworthy enemies and adversaries down below, friendly faces, and those of neutral boundaries. The companions were left behind; no need to drag them all the way from Halo and into King’s End for something that could wind up so perilously unknown.
So he settled himself into a tree along the outskirts, tucked well into the branches and brambles, and surveyed the scene: much like Fiat Lux had once been, with stalls and smells of sugar, of children running and screeching in between games, food, and drink, his head tilting to the music.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
