[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Deimos rarely received any demonstration of other weaponry: born to a majority of munitions, experience harpooned in the depths of his memories, in the scattering of nightmares, in the eclipsing of war cries and their ilk. He was usually the one showing, casting, or indicating techniques, how to utilize, how to incorporate, how to bend and brutalize within a moment. So it was rather appealing to sit back for a moment and not, though he would make no mention of this to any living soul, his eyes perusing, watching, an avid study and scholar, tilting his head in accord with obvious curiosity. Insight into this sort of machinery was noteworthy because it had potential for more ruin, for more defensive procedures – things that threatened, things that mauled. He nodded his assent in the direction of Adam’s aforementioned tree, gaze drifting back to witness how he maneuvered and used the gun. A trigger, finger descending. And nothing else? The fire, bang, and shot sent the briefest shudder into his skin, not prepared for the ricochet and sound. Swords weren’t silent, not when grating metal against other surfaces like bones or flesh, but didn’t resound or echo in such a way. His stare peeled away to where the bark had splintered. “A weapon for distance,” he murmured, still intrigued. “And closer contact? What is the range?” His catapult might have been able to conjure more damage, but sometimes its accuracy left a lot to be desired, based on recent tests and assaults on their targets.

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