[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace There were times Deimos couldn’t tell if Adam was an actual idiot, or just playing the village fool, the dullard, the traipsing, easygoing jester. The Sword had time and patience for neither, the icy distinction of his composure walling further and further; the hurt, the disregard, everything else from the past few days fumbling around and steeling his soul into a forged monstrosity of upheaval and nonchalance. Back and forth, back and forth, eager to rampage and send the dunce asunder, straight into hell or wherever it was that men like him ventured from. His offer churned and turned into a joke, and the beast was in no laughing mood. Perhaps the only warning, and the last, Adam would receive was another narrowing of his puncturing, piercing gaze. “No.” Zuriel, strangely attempting to be the peacekeeper (likely more for Amalia’s sake than his own), pulsed some calming essence his way, and the Sword’s jaw clenched, tight, locked, before returning his attention back to the basket. While more woven portions manifested, chilling, frigid, a possession, a seizure, a tension of his attributes, notions, and emotions at the moment, the unicorn proceeded forward, her rigid, unmoving stare slicing straight back to Adam (the dragon would receive a look of fondness). She sniffed towards his hair, at his clothes, nostrils widening, mind whirling, perhaps striving to sense what on earth made Amalia enjoy his presence and nature.

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