survival never goes out of style

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