D E I M O S
The Reaper knew nothing about the festival.
His eyes had caught the glimpse of the newest notice on the board; Amalia’s writing scrawled across the paper, tilting his head in curiosity over incoming festivities. Had that been the reason for the banners flying along eaves and window boxes? What were they celebrating? And was it even something truly coming, with the rest of the world sputtering into sheer chaos? Would they (abandoned, forsaken, the demons who’d never had a chance, an opportunity, to refuse their spiral upon this earth) even be welcome?
Audacity and curiosity spurred him on, following the pathways and avenues down towards the familiar bakery. Festivals hadn’t been commonplace at all in Isilme; except perhaps after major crusades and campaigns had been won, crushing blows dealt to enemies and adversaries, where the kingdom would rejoice, spill wine on the streets, and haunt the rest of the day until the next morning’s hours. The cobblestones were lined with debris and mischief; as if the rest of the sovereigns were theirs for the taking, and to hell with everyone else.
It hadn’t occurred when he’d come home from battle. The major victories had been forgotten, conquests laid flat by later disasters and ruins. He didn’t even bother struggling to recollect his other life; he likely would’ve been a shadow at the gates, glaring at passerbys.
Deimos had utterly no intention of singing (he’d embarrassed himself several times last season) or crafting (he’d be able to decimate artifacts, which seemed pointless to the entire task), but he could likely handle baking. At least the end result probably wouldn’t be too terrible, and he might be able to sneak a couple bits of good food.
He poked his head in, eyeing the vast array of things: crafting, sticks, and flowers (avoided wholeheartedly), fabric and paint (which he might have been able to conduct and orchestrate), but the bowls of dough were safe and intriguing. He lifted his eyes to survey the rest of the scene, nodding at Amalia. “I came to help,” he shrugged, suddenly a little lost and out of his element, before sidling closer to the counter, savoring the intertwining scents and smells wafting from the nearby spices. “I can try baking.”
