I carried my own ashes to the mountains
While Deimos had fought all manner of warfare – from the covert to the overt, from the furtive to the glaringly obvious, to the march across plains and the refugee maelstroms thereafter, they’d yet to encounter any scales of Caido’s accomplishments. If it were measured together in a particular book or tome, he’d yet to uncover it. “I am not certain,” though from the meager details they’d been given, there’d been some manner of battle, relics from the reticent warriors scattered amongst the dirges. He paused, still walking, still keeping an unforgiving pace, bearing witness to the leaf tornado growing more disastrous within the art of his ministrations. “All I know is that the Voice was trapped within the Hollowed Grounds those three hundred years ago,” along with all its citizens, inhabitants, and the deities themselves.
“May be worth consulting with one of the gods,” but the sentiment gave him incredible pause – for he hadn’t earned the right to query Safrin anytime soon. “Or Naturals.” He had no intention of stepping out of the bounds of his Outlander status – for he still hadn’t been born here, no matter how he’d been dragged from other worlds, assisted these ones, or gave himself over time and time again.
“May be worth consulting with one of the gods,” but the sentiment gave him incredible pause – for he hadn’t earned the right to query Safrin anytime soon. “Or Naturals.” He had no intention of stepping out of the bounds of his Outlander status – for he still hadn’t been born here, no matter how he’d been dragged from other worlds, assisted these ones, or gave himself over time and time again.
DEIMOS
