[PQ] [seasonal event] kindness keep a lonely company

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

He’d missed a lot of things on his purposeful, detached march to purgatory, but camaraderie was high on the list. The beast once had his legions by his side, warriors drawn together in mirth, in violence, in the uproar and unholy aches of vehemence and vigilance, before the end, before the ashes, before the rubble. Kiada was a firm reminder of the fire bestowed in the world, of support and teamwork, and he laughed as she applied to her request, as he winked, subtle, in her direction, as he remembered days of glory with rapiers and wit. The Reaper even chuckled at the horrendous puns Jigano uttered, shying away from the wilder bouts of flour flying through the air. It wasn’t the same, not a battleground, not a dais of war, but it was in all those other regards. The playful assaults, the mischievous scorn of children (and if that is what they’ve truly embodied, he really didn’t care; a devil’s glee was par for the juvenile course), did naught to dissuade his nefarious amusement. Within the heart of it, he was content and satisfied, accepted and tolerated, come to life instead of receding back into the glacial, frigid lines his void, his brushstrokes, always seemed to savor. He didn’t argue at Jigano’s hushed murmurs, though an eyeroll was evident, broken through the enamored facets and impish regard. His attention was spent on finalizing his dough, ensuring the lines on the snowflake were perfected, arranged in meticulous, scrupulous detail, the aurora temptations a bestial roar in the back of his mind. His eyes, however, took in the rest of the scene, the promise of cleaning up their follies and mess. He, currently, appeared to be the cleanest – how this had occurred was beyond him; but the notion of success, the briefest, gleaming chance of him triumphing, flickered into his sights. Should he play it safe? Should he escalate, ensure he was victorious? Jigano went for Kiada, and it was Deimos’ chance to slip under the radar. Ever a calculating individual, he took the opportunity to linger in the shadows, take what he’d already snagged and snared; grabbing hold of his dough and presenting it towards Amalia and the oven (the rich scent of mixed spices tempting him further), a delighted smirk still embedded in his lips. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. With Jigano taking the broom, he turned towards the amount of flour they’d left along the counters. It wasn’t right, and it wouldn’t be fair, to allow it all to remain from their antics and entertainment. Though the amusement had been well worth it, there would always be something else to take into consideration; he might’ve leapt too far. If Amalia had snarled and snipped at them, there would be more regrets curling into his chest; for now, he took the punishment as a necessity. The warrior ducked below the counter again, grabbing hold of a nearby cloth and dipping it into the bucket they’d already used, wetting it down to make it easier to hold the flour. Then he came back up, lowering the dampened material and maneuvering it across the surface, intending to leave it as pristine as when they’d entered, no sign of their antics left behind (just the memories of it). For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate