[DROP] Teine ​​is fortan

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The fire woman spoke, in between the vivid, wild plumes of flames and embers, declaring sentiments and purposes for bringing them all forward, for sending out siren songs, asking them what they stood for, what they were worth, what value they’d been christened and anointed. Instantly, a part of him thought about replying the truth: nothing. He didn’t have any particular talent other than killing, and most, with enough gumption, weaponry, and malice, could devastate another. Naught made him remarkable, above the rest; sometimes utterly indifferent and apathetic to the world around him, fortifying his walls, his iron, stone-clad demeanor, meandering through the shadows because it was comfortable and familiar. Other moments he was mischief and mayhem, caught in the amiability and affability of those who dared to get closer, to see beyond the ramparts and munitions. Then, in those idle, stretched out moments, he was the great unknown, a void, a vessel, empty and forlorn, tied into desolation and enigmas, wandering on precipices, waiting for a chance to strike, a purpose to snag and tie to his heart. He'd once been dead, but that didn’t appear to be anything substantial either – wound from his grave and into another time, another place, another world – without answers, clear, concise pictures meant to send him elsewhere. The Reaper simply remained, chained and chiseled, sculpted and molded, struggling to surface, but refusing to give in. And…perhaps that was it. His defiance, his sedition, his inability to surrender or concede, digging in, irreverent to the anthems, to the masses, who craved for him to crack and sever, fall apart at the seams. He dared and distorted, schemes and ruses compiled through Machiavellian contemplation, cold-blooded and determined, a bestial form meant to endure, persist, and persevere. The piercing depths of his eyes looked nowhere else but at the unknown woman and her fire, the overflow of others’ answers barely billowing in his ears. It was only the steady drum of his answer pulsing its way through his mouth, deep intonations pervading towards the seeker. “Resolve.” the last of a line of lasts