northern downpour sends its love

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The warrior stayed when he was quite inclined to stray. The foreboding sense of unease clung to his veins no matter how many stops they made along the way, the mounting gloom of ominous, ridiculous consternation and apprehension whittled its way into his throat, and he was doomed to a brooding, brewing silence. He followed, because Rexanna knew what she was doing, and he was a damned, lost cause, yearning to find answers but almost unwilling to regard the one she’d proffered. Asking, pleading, and begging for a deities’ attentions had gone so blatantly wrong. The Reaper had little to offer any god. They’d made it abundantly clear before. He was a living, breathing weapon when they had cutlasses, rapiers, and powers of their own. They didn’t require his calm, his cold-blooded demeanor, or his cruel, devious machinations. They didn’t require his sulking, anguishing presence. They didn’t require his promises, oaths, and assurances. He caught her smiles, but they did naught to unravel the tension flickering off of him in waves. The inevitable encroached; he could feel it stir in his bones, the curl and coil of isolation and remoteness amidst the pious shrine, swarming against his frame in the holy temple. Go away Abandoned it almost seemed to say, without eyes, without ears, without a heart – the omnipresent, potent vibes clawing and crawling along his spine. Had they not craved answers for the incoming oblivion, treachery, and absurdities of the hour, Deimos wouldn’t have been there at all. Rexanna insisted. He was trapped. She called for Safrin, and he simply stood there, uncertain of what to say. The last time he’d ever pledged himself to some unseen beacon, he’d been kneeling, drowning in the constant rain, screaming, hollering, howling for an answer, for a sign, that never came – their quiet had been a death knell. He swallowed the memories, the bile, the choking, disastrous ash smoldering on his tongue; waited for the inevitable, for the strike, for the silence, for the unavoidable. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace