DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He watched her from the corner of his eye, not quite a glare, but not quite amiable either. Too many gnarled knots and precise, intricate wounds notched down the damnation of his spine, across the reaches of backs and plains, in between ribs and corridors of lungs and hearts. The Sword, and the Reaper, had spent multitudes of time in the whims of violence, vehemence, and vengeance. Sometimes it was all he’d known – nefarious and sinister, unwinding, unfurling, before battlefields and amongst, amidst shadows, desecrating those who’d dared to blight those in his land. Those in his keep. Those in his protection. Those he cherished and beloved. Because why should any adversary, any enemy, be permitted to cast their wounds, their brutality again, and again, and again? A challenge rang in his throat, a rumble low where a stone had been slung, pulling and dictating the way his life had worked for so very long. And when they keep hurting the ones you care about? What do you do then?
His head twisted back to her eventually, out of the cool mist and along definition of his carnivore form. Because I refuse to do nothing when one of my own is marred. Political maneuvers, fires stoked, infernos reached and breached, and still, they had never seen the depths of desecration Deimos would go to - had - since the days of the Basin.
And the Voice? His eyes narrowed, speculation curling and conforming, a tiger’s jaw clenching instead of a man’s, but habitual and routine all the same. Do you believe the gods would stop it? His gaze flickered away from her, parsing through the falls, watching mist roll. I have nothing against the Ascended. Save for a few who’d snagged at his edges, and it hadn’t been because of their race. But I have seen and been victim to the Voice’s machinations. And something needed to be done so more weren’t plagued by her plots and ploys.
His head twisted back to her eventually, out of the cool mist and along definition of his carnivore form. Because I refuse to do nothing when one of my own is marred. Political maneuvers, fires stoked, infernos reached and breached, and still, they had never seen the depths of desecration Deimos would go to - had - since the days of the Basin.
And the Voice? His eyes narrowed, speculation curling and conforming, a tiger’s jaw clenching instead of a man’s, but habitual and routine all the same. Do you believe the gods would stop it? His gaze flickered away from her, parsing through the falls, watching mist roll. I have nothing against the Ascended. Save for a few who’d snagged at his edges, and it hadn’t been because of their race. But I have seen and been victim to the Voice’s machinations. And something needed to be done so more weren’t plagued by her plots and ploys.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
