DEIMOS
Between the vicious movements of the blade and the whetstone, her erratic movements, and his plotting, the mood had certainly shifted into scheming, into frustration, into the knotted and furrowed brows angling together to conform over his machinations. Understandable, given the people, the place, the land, the need and want to help. It was just everything else clustered together, conforming over the justifications, the persistent edges of rulers who’d already shown they weren’t trustworthy. Morgan and defenses gave him a deep uttering of a snort. “I gave her many papers outlining defenses and possibilities,” and where had all of those gone? He’d drawn up proportions and portions meant to render the road to the portal cleared. He’d manifested weapon archetypes and ways to reinforce the Citadel walls. It’d been his duty – the construction, the parameters, the thoughts behind how to best safeguard those nestled within. She’d been the one to ride in on her Ascended dragon, to violently rampage into the scene, and terrorize her own. Something deep and dark and angry bolstered to the surface, and he stilled, trying to place it downwards, back into his chest. “I think the distinction will need to be if it aids the people, or aids Morgan and Neron.” His eyes flickered back to hers; imploring, wondering, about this pursuit.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
