DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword had a particular skill in patience, in diligence, in waiting. He could stand amidst silence while worlds gathered under the breadth of his calculations, directions, and accord, or even now, in the midst of Cordelia reading, understanding, and comprehending the next course of action. Something bitter stoked in his chest, and maybe it was a promise he couldn’t make (to ensure she was safe) while he went and wandered into the Peepholes with the rest of their predetermined party. “Yes. It should just be for an evening.” She could likely ascertain why without too much prompting – the need for relics to be found before the Ascended could snag them, before war pressed and loomed and orchestrated far more than what they were facing currently.
Deimos didn’t like leaving anyone behind. His brows furrowed in the torchlight, in the haze of beyond beacons, the roar of parties echoing like throngs – drunken hooligans from somewhere down the lane boasting. “Will you be all right?”
Deimos didn’t like leaving anyone behind. His brows furrowed in the torchlight, in the haze of beyond beacons, the roar of parties echoing like throngs – drunken hooligans from somewhere down the lane boasting. “Will you be all right?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
