To long

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sunjata’s involvement with anything was worth a roll of the Sword’s eyes, but they’d had enough discussions over that man for a lifetime. Instead, his eyes narrowed, head tilting, the picture of studious examination over the rim of his tea mug, contemplating all the issues stemming from these particular notions. “But you did stay and fight. You did what you could.” Even if it hadn’t been the Sparkbird itself, Darkeye had managed to face the onslaughts; which was more than the Flood, and many others. “And I am not certain Azrael is gone.” At least, he hadn’t heard of such – uncertain about what routes the young demigod had taken after the Voice’s fall. Not used to the cleric’s emotional state, the Warden offered a nearby box of tissues, and quieted the depth of his vocals. “Because there was no other option. It was going to happen between the gods whether we wanted it or not.” And those who didn’t want to participate lingered amidst the Refuge, biding their time in sanctuary. His brows furrowed slightly at the other insinuations, taking a sip of his drink before answering. “I have no jurisdiction over any of the demis,” nor did he know what Remi or Ronin were up to. Noah was a friend, and the rest of the others seemed a stranded nuance of here and there. He wasn’t even of their caliber. “When there are other leaders found, maybe that will be an option.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace