[DROP] Teine ​​is fortan

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts It came as no surprise to the Reaper that the fire woman’s obtuse, enigmatic quandary yielded responses not to her liking. This was how the world worked. This was how deities manipulated. This was how realms fell apart and kingdoms crumbled to the ground. This was how leaders bellowed and called to their soldiers, and this was how their compatriots died. His features turned, shifted, to complete, utter apathy, the indifference lined along his brows. He could just leave; have no part in the rest of the ridiculous venture, called and summoned to be dragged along the coals with the rest of the gathered. The beast thought about growling and simply vanishing into the shadows, back to where he’d come from, out of sight and out of mind again. Thereafter, he wasn’t given an option. Her own howl ricocheted off of the brambles and branches, the thorns and the nettles, harking out circles of fire – a measure, a tactic, to make them earn their escape. If it were just him within the container, he’d think nothing of rampaging straight through the flames, the inferno, the combustion suddenly surrounding them, for he’d lived amidst combustion and torment, and knew very well he’d do it again. But another was trapped and ensnared right alongside him: a complete stranger, redhaired, stumbling back into Deimos’ frame. In any other situation, he would’ve arched a brow, snorted, or cast some dark, inept joke. But in the present, he only had time to nod and extend his name, “Deimos,” keen and blunt, to the point, before Ianto transformed, and the beast’s military mind was a swift, calculating thing. The fox climbed up his shoulders, settling there across the broad figures, and thanks to interactions with Kiada, it didn’t send the Reaper into any sensation of alarm. In fact, his entire cranium coiled into armaments and pursuits, into machinations and schemes, as the ring of fire threatened to enclose. A sudden hum flowed along the intricacies, there all along, pulsing and guiding – he shot out a hand, breathed in deeply, and remembered, recalled, the instant with the throwing knives. If he could create them simply out of need, out of want, what could he do now? Stones began to take shape along the earth below his feet, aligning themselves into a bridge form, wide and sturdy enough to hold both of their figures, forming over the embers, the smoke, the blaze. Swiftly, quickly, he and Ianto stepped upon the bridge, and off, onto the other side. the last of a line of lasts