[Mini Event] To See and Pray [OPEN TO ALL]

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame His inquiry, meant to be a calm, controlled, precise entity to generate discussion instead of vehemence, acrimony, and vitriol, almost fell entirely on deaf ears. The warrior was reminded of why he hated crowds, social paradigms, and everything in between. Perhaps if he hurled himself off the embankment, the spire monster could swallow him whole, and he wouldn’t have to suffer through the ridiculous maelstrom building, billowing, and brewing to a wretched inferno. The lines were drawn so quickly he might’ve received whiplash by how many times his head twisted back and forth, staring at those he’d never seen, never heard from before, and the layers of malice, of menace, lacquered in those intervals. It was unleashed bedlam on both sides, and he could only be a muted player, his one meager attempt an utter failure, listening to every nuance, every contemptuous decibel, leveled at either end. The Reaper hadn’t been well received by enemies or opponents, but that was an expectation on the battlefield, when each beast was trying to murder and desecrate the other; this was asinine pandemonium, prejudice and blight, wrath and chaos, slung from Outlander and Natural alike. If he wasn’t standing there, amongst and amidst the fold, he might’ve found it wild entertainment, the sort of dramatic diversion and bedlam dynamic he would’ve shaken his head and laughed at. Some were praying, some were pleading, some were howling, roaring, and jeering; it was a wreck, and no matter of yelling, screaming, or insulting would’ve made the situation any better – mob mentality at its finest, rooted in base, innate temptations and emotions, each trying to outdo one another in distaste and abhorrence. His eyes lingered on those he considered allies and friends, Rory, Amalia, and Wessex, listened as assumptions and bias, intolerance, shuttered its way across the landscape. Now what? Should he care that those he thought of as comrades likely hated his very existence? Was that anything new? Did it matter? Hadn’t he detested himself for eons now? What were they supposed to be doing, when all the loathing, enmity, and antipathy settled, when brutality lingered and festered in their minds, when they were supposed to be cooperating? Then Deimos heard Rexanna voice the inner claws and bile his mutinous thoughts had longed to unravel – far more eloquently than he’d ever manage. A part of him wanted to rise up and rebel against all the ineptitude, all the contempt, disgust, and revulsion, and another portion of him choked on it; embraced its familiar boundaries and unfurling strands like an old friend. He hadn’t made a choice to come here. He’d been taken, snatched away; content with his old life (a lie; he’d merely been waiting until his own vices consumed him and he could go straight to hell, brood where he belonged), tried to make the most of the world before them. Hadn’t they helped rebuild shops? Hadn’t most of them listened, roamed to safety and sanctuary, when they were told about LongNight? But the Reaper didn’t go anywhere; didn’t align himself with either side, didn’t form a wall, an outline of favorites and foes, of Outlanders and Naturals. He remained firmly ensconced, a steady breath, where he stood (as if he'd done this a thousand times, staring death in the face), rock and Colossus and monolith, breathing it all in, gaze piercing on Rexanna. He gave her a firm nod, an affirmation of her appeals, that he’d heard her in all the weary ignorance. Then his voice lingered, controlled, composed, daring to reach across the consuming abyss, the devouring void, eyes daring to catch all of those who still lingered on the sanction. “Anger and fear appear to speak for many of us, but an individual’s opinion does not encompass everyone’s belief.” Every Outlander didn’t behold the Naturals with great disgust, and he hoped, half-heartedly, that not every Natural sneered at them with massive disdain either. He paused thereafter, struggling to decipher and word the phrases, the decibels, the nuances and sentiments drowning all of them. So he opted to ask the same inquiry, the same quandary again, itching to receive more orchestrated answers instead of insults or slander; he was a listening ear, a calculating, machinating mind. “What do all of you want? What if the monster fails to fall? What if the assault is successful?” What did they aim for besides surviving LongNight? What did they hope to gain from the world around them? Or was it too late for that - and his question would only be met by more of the same? They'd wanted to wait, they'd wanted to pause; but what else? master of nothing place of recoil and grace