survival never goes out of style

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame At the stretch of dawn days after the fall of heathens and fiends, he didn’t go to explore the Spire, to march against Naturals, or to join the arms of fellow Outlanders. Deimos took the opportunity to scavenge the ruins, to wander, to wonder, to peer and peel back the oddities and occurrences; and above all, to strengthen his own abilities. He’d seen the destruction of the monster, but at the cost of life. He’d fought and fought before; fellow humans, blistering and seething, a living, breathing weapon, stretching his incantations and malice across grounds, hurling spears, throwing axes, knives, and daggers, arming himself with cutlasses, rapiers, and sheer, indomitable will. But this world was different – and that meant he had to grow with it. Instead of eroding, the beast was forced to lift his head up, stare across the grounds, and be more than a brooding, potential force. He had to be lethal. He had to be noxious. He had to be cunning. There was no room for floating around in his brooding munitions; it would take more action, more movement, more maneuvers to become something besides the dark, lurking, skulking creature in the corner. The beast thought he heard a rustle of wind, felt a sprinkle of rain drops across the bridge of his nose; but when he glanced at the sky, it was serene, a vivid blue, and he smirked. Today’s intentions had been to practice his skills, ensure they hadn’t become rusty and deficient in his lack of practice (vampire pumpkins had been amusing at best; and during LongNight he’d been trapped and ensconced). Layered amidst the ruins, he spied a few, more fragile pieces of wood, and after grabbing them, placed them meters apart, presuming he could utilize them for target practice. They were clearly no longer in use, and could serve one last purpose before a massive burn of debris and ruin. He backed away, drawing a line in the dirt with the length of his boot, and grabbed ahold of Alistair’s hunting knife. The soldier frowned slightly, because it seemed like the type of weaponry ill-suited to this purpose, and he suddenly wished he had some smaller daggers, allowing for a more pinpointed accuracy, lighter in his hand, capable of further flight and lack of deflection from the wind. When he looked down again, one was in his hand. His brow arched, then furrowed, head churning and attempting to puzzle out the newest enigma to run his blood cold. What was going on? What had caused this phenomenon? Was it a mirage? A hallucination? Some trickery, deceit? A snare, a lure, meant to cloak and veil his senses until he was stunned into a stupor? But it felt so tangible, so real, in the palm of his hand, and on a diligent, scrupulous effort to determine the rationale, the lunacy, he pushed it to his fingertips. In a single, swift move, he flicked the knife, and watched it sail towards one of the wooden blocks. It hit in the center with a clear, distinct, audible sound. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Evie

EVIE

there ain't no doubt in no ones mind

Evie moved on light and quick feet through the ruins. She wasn't particularly noisy, but nor was she making any real attempt to veil her position. In fact she was humming beneath her breath, occasionally throwing in the odd word or two when it suited the melody.

Today Evie had a basket draped over an arm and she was gathering plants seemingly at random. It was mostly random, to be fair. Though she had some knowledge of botany, Evie Wordsworth was, in a word, a sham. Her parents disapproved of the fact she was born an abandoned, and so they made her hide it. Evie had tried to work at being an apothecarist, and while she did enjoy some aspects of it (creating essential oils were lovely), for the most part being able to identify different species of plants was not really her cup of tea.

And really, if she couldn't tell the difference between the plants, what did it matter. It was her magic doing all the work anyways.

Moving out from behind a broken half-crumbling wall, Evie stopped abruptly as a blade went zinging a few feet in front of her, landing with impressive accuracy. Scowling slightly and ready to whoever it was a gentle reminder about the dangers of knife throwing, her gaze was suddenly swept up in the very commanding presence of Deimos. "Oh." She said to herself, incredibly stupidly, before clearing her throat and trying this first impression again.

Pushing a long strand of copper from her eyes, she quirked a brow and looked pointedly from the blade, back to the reaper. "I suppose I should ask if that's what you were aiming before, before I say whether or not it was any good, hmm?"

that love's the finest thing around

Table by Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He couldn’t understand it – couldn’t push past the bizarre sense of invocations. But he’d never had them before; how many times had he yearned, had he craved, had he longed for something and found it outside of his grasp? The warrior narrowed his eyes and stared at the thrown knife, steadily poking out from where he’d left it, somewhat irritated and annoyed that it couldn’t provide him with any answers. Why would it come to him now? His lethal enchantments had been known to them ever since he was small, a boy, lacking control and sending blades of grass to their withering depths. His father had laughed, all potency and potential in his chuckles, his mother had stared, narrowed her eyes, and seemed to sigh. This gift, however, was unknown, was foreign, was strange. It didn’t crawl through his veins like the deadly toxins. It sprung, it leaped, it came without warning; almost effortless and fluid. It had a beat, a pulse, a rabbit heart, imploring for more and more, and simply to see if it would work again, his callous, covetous reaches implored for the same materials, the same designs, the same mold as the knife before. Another appeared, just as strong, just as durable, just as conniving and handy. The Reaper’s disbelief and bewilderment was slightly altered by the appearance of a woman – red haired, like flames, like fire, like burning, boiling copper – and he closed his fingers over the dagger. She might’ve been just as surprised by his previous actions, coming from a wall far too close to where he’d been practicing. He didn’t apologize though; a shrug shuffled its way through his shoulders, before his piercing eyes truly came to stare upon her. He recognized her, not by name, but by appearance, by the sullen, acidic whispers made by other Naturals as they witnessed the Spire Monster torn apart, as they watched Ronin meet his demise. There was a brief expectation that she’d come to diminish him again, like the rest had, screaming, hollering, howling, and wailing that the Outlanders were rash, that they were no good, that they made everything ten times worse; but naught came. Perhaps she didn’t realize he’d been the quiet, composed one, asking what they wanted and receiving no answer. “The block of wood,” he indicated back, pointing where the knife was still stuck, to ensure his aim had been impeccable. The beast arched a brow, and to demonstrate his accuracy, because his control had always been a sufficient, contorted portion to his soul, he flicked the new dagger back into his grasp. It sang with a crisp edge, a battle omen, towards the second placed block, and fixed itself in the fibers in a steady, echoing crescendo. Thereafter, though, was a balancing act; uncertain if he should continue engaging the woman in conversation, or if he was going to become the victim of some other lecture about the natures of Outlanders. He’d been trying, so with a soft exhale, he allowed an inquiry to pass through his mouth. “What brings you out here?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Evie

EVIE

there ain't no doubt in no ones mind

Had Evie noticed? No, of course not. She was consumed in her anger, pulled in by the blackhole of Rory's emotion and happy to explode along with her people. Evie was that sort after all. The bandwagon-jumper, the face in the crowd who didn't bother to look, the one who liked the sound of her own voice. Flawed? Of course, but unapologetically so.

Sort of.

Flinching as Deimos suddenly threw another dagger, Evie inhaled a shocked but impressed gasp as it nestled itself with unfettered neatness against the angle of the first blade. "Oh. Well done then."

Briefly Evie wondered if she hadn't just walked into some immensely dangerous scenerio from which her quick wit and prominent last name wouldn't save her. However what fell from the reaper's lips was not the threat she'd imagined it would be, but what seemed like an attempt at conversation. Her apprehension disappeared, and the red-head flashed a bright white smile as she held up the basket on her arm.

"Herbs, mostly." She said with a casual shrug. "I'm an apothecarist." Evie added, which was true. The bit about needing the herbs however, wasn't. Still, having an assortment of random dried leaves in her shop gave the impression that all of Evie's healing was in fact done naturally, rather than magically. Which was of course the point.

"And you? Just out...throwing knives?"

that love's the finest thing around

Table by Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame There was no menace, no hatred, no vehemence torn towards his figure, and the beast realized he’d simply not been noticed again. It occasionally worked in his favor, when his massive frame could recoil into the shadows and listen to the abrupt changes in breathing, in tones, in whispering frenzies, in bestial murmurs. Perhaps it was fine that no one recalled or remembered the length of calm he’d tried to weave into the inferno; it’d been superfluous moments later, regardless of anyone’s answer. His gaze flicked down to her mentioned basket, regarding its laurels and containments with reticence and iron composure. Deimos wouldn’t have known what leaf did what, what concoction could be boiled over and steeped for soothing balms; healing had never been amidst his strengths or priorities. Bloodshed had always been his calling, a barbaric howl in the stretch of fibers, muscle, and flesh, war-laden and acrimonious the moment he inhaled a battlefield’s tangible weight, the moment the armor glided across his shoulders, his chest, his essence. His intentions had always been to slay, not mend, to lacerate, not treat, to devastate, not tend. But he could respect those urged by the craft, a necessity in trying times and unknown, haunting sectors. Curiosity caught him, tilting his head, studying the herbs for a moment more, inquiring because asking was better than spending an eternity pondering. He pointed to the closest set of fronds and leaflets. “What is this one for?” Besides, it appeared as though she had queries for him too. “Practicing,” he admitted with the slightest hint of a smile resting on the edges of his lips. His gaze lingered back on the daggers, walking back to the blocks of wood holding their metal edges (still real, still tangible, still bizarre), and twisting, turning, their frames until they were pulled free. “Accuracy will always be a necessity.” He didn’t offer why; the reasons, the events, billowing and pervading their surroundings would be enough to base a rationale. He returned, quickly, a shifting of keen barbarity beneath the layers of composure, a cool, chilling presence, and extended one of the knives towards her. “Would you like to try?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Evie

EVIE

there ain't no doubt in no ones mind

Evie was nothing if not an accomplished liar. She had to be, given that the majority of her life was built on a cleverly crafted deception. "Minor aches and pains." The girl replied easily and immediately as if it were true. "It is crushed and used topically. It can also reduce the size of bruises." Could it actually? Maybe. Who knows? Plants could do all sorts of interesting things, that's why proper apothecarists existed after all. They couldn't all be magical shams like her.

"Uh huh." She replied in a sing-song voice, copper brow arched skeptically. "Is there some knife-throwing competition that I haven't heard of?" Evie asked, her pale lips twisting into a smile that seemed to come far easier than his did.

"Mmm." Evie hummed in agreement. Accuracy as to what? A more clever mind might have asked, but as it was, Evie was not one for philosophical pandering or rants. Accuracy was important. It was as simple as that.

"Oh." She stuttered, surprised, doe-blue eyes blinking stupidly. What she wanted was to make up an excuse, because what was going to happen if she said yes, was that this absurdly ruggedly handsome man was going to show her what to do, and Evie with her soft hands and complete lack of coordination was going to wildly miss the stump, and then there'd be an awkward moment while this man tried to figure out how to tell her to leave, and she'd have to endure a strange walk of shame out of the glade.

But instead of coming up with any sort of reason, she looked into his unshaven face and nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

That's the thing about having your life be a lie. You never know when to stop.

that love's the finest thing around

Table by Sky!

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sometimes Deimos’ own ignorance astounded him; the amount of time he’d spent amidst kingdoms, sovereigns, and territories, and still having a vast array of the unknown come hurdling towards him (everything from healing, demons, monsters, and fellow infidels) was bewildering and ridiculous. But he had the ability to see past the frustrations and vexations, despite the frequency of their occurrence, to push towards sagacity, experience, and wisdom. In another life he might’ve been a more dignified scholar – but he’d been the sort to blend immediately into bloodshed and devastation the mere moment the opportunity arose. He still had his meticulous efforts, his diligent, scrupulous studies, his methods, ruses, and devices, but they’d always came second to the upheaval, the menace, the malice, the swing of a sword, the keen edge of a blade. So he listened as she explained, intrigued by a plant’s materials and substances, the uses extending well past whatever he’d accounted them for. The warrior placed the information away in his mind, completely unaware that it might not even be the least bit truthful, adjusting his gaze back to the chosen stumps and the marks chiseled into their middles. The indent of his smile still remained as she sing-songed and joked about potential competitions (which he could easily get behind). “If only,” and he thought about suggesting it towards the legions of festival airs that were supposed to be igniting at some point, using the moment to question and query about the incoming celebrations. “There are none at your festival?” He acted wounded, brows furrowing in an almost mocking display, before tilting his head and studying her again. It seemed as though she was surprised by his offer. Maybe he should’ve rescinded it – she likely hadn’t held many daggers in her life with every intention of mauling and wounding, and instead, utilized them with tending to patients or grinding away at herbs. When she accepted it, perhaps taking some time to weigh the pros and cons in her brain, he was suitably surprised, but intrigued nonetheless. He reached for her closest hand and gently grabbed hold of her wrist, dropping a knife in her palm, then releasing her, and stepping aside so she could have full access to the nearest target. “Try to pinch the blade with your thumb and index finger,” he proffered again, demonstrating it with his own dagger, waiting for her to follow before delivering the next set of instructions. Evie master of nothing place; of recoil and grace