DEIMOS
Eventually he found a hunting knife that needed a whetstone, and plucking that out of the bag too, started with quick flicks to sharpen the dulled blade. It eased the surging restlessness behind his mind, and if he couldn’t slice something apart right then and there, at the very least he could ensure the next dominion of the serrated edges would be something fierce. The smiles and grins had all diminished, furrowing deeply into the set of his brows, in the length of his frown worn tightly, as if yearning to fracture another multitude. He could have waxed a seething amount of frustration into the notions, depleting any of the charitable comments from before, when she spoke again of Frey. Of things asked prior to fleeing, away from the mountains, and down into the valleys. He drew himself straight again, willing another sigh to pass through instead of biting down on something vicious. “Would you do the same for her now?” Morgan; who’d spurned the Old Gods and spirits, who’d drawn herself to the Voice, who could only rely on her people to ensure they were protected, defended, and shielded. “And what was it for?” The Sword could surmise any number of things – presuming, mostly, on the portal.
Something he didn’t even trust now, given all the other nuances.
He watched her shrug and he could only do the same – shaking his head once more, taking another breath that filled his lungs and extended back into the plumes of smoke and air. “Maybe one more place to hide.”
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
