I scrolled through the tumblr for a while and WHY is Desma so underrated??? She's mu favorite and I can hardly find any asks about her!
Here's one from me then, how different would things be if her and MC's roles were reversed (meaning Desma temporarily gets taken in and enjoys a comfortable rich life while MC stays in the streets all along before they eventually meet)
Oh anon, I might have gotten carried away.
She sits outside of the pits.
Her father is dead. She knows it, even though it shouldn't be true.
He was the best fighter, but he's still dead, and she is alone.
"Aw, pup. I'm too late, aren't I," a man's gruff voice calls out.
She looks up, eyes still bleary from crying as the man's shadow falls over her, blocking out the sun.
Desma knew he was a warrior. She had seen plenty to know. She squinted at the man, trying to determine if she had seen him before. Reddish-brown hair was pulled back in a bulky braid that hung heavily over his shoulder. The pale skin on his cheeks an angry pink, his nose looked like it had been broken but never healed right, and a jagged scar cut through one milky eye, juxtaposing a green one.
"You knew my father. One of his friends," She says finally with a sniff and his nods. With more gentlnesss than expected from a man his size, he reaches out to her.
"Aye pup. And I can be yours too,"
For a moment Desma stares at the hand, before taking it.
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She watches him from behind a post, observing him form. He hefts a sword that she doesn't think she could ever lift, but she likes watching him train and fight. Likes it even more when he shows her a few things.
He approaches the post and yanks her up by the collar, looking at her with his good eye.
"Aren't you supposed to be learning how to peer at the papers with Old Alim? Playing at desertion pup?" He asks gruffly and Desma giggles when he jostles her in the air, catching the smile on his face.
"What if we don't tell Thalia, and I can stay and train with you?" She asks, trying to give him her best pleading expression.
He sighs and puts her down.
"Ya need ta learn," he stays and she pouts.
"No. I can just fight! Like you, and," she trails off. "And my pa,"
Kreios frowns and pats her head, the heavy weight of his hand comforting.
"There's always a fight somewhere. Ya have plenty of time for that, but learning new things gets harder, especially when you're old like me,"
He chuckles and she smiles a little but flops on the ground.
"I guess I'm old too," Kreios scoffed and Desma added, "And dumb too,"
"Says who?"
"Poldi," She makes a face. "He says 'Why even bother,' all the time!"
Kreios sighs.
"Yer a smart pup. You don't need to be the best at paper, but you have to try. Learn to read, to count! Then you'll have better than an old sworn sword like me,"
She gets up and runs over to hug him.
"I have enough now," she says.
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Ash is all around her, the new tunic Thalia had gifted her was now caked with so much soot and her own sweat that it clung to her like a second skin.
She clutched Kreios's shield to herself, looking at the ruins of her life.
Her pa was gone. Thalia and Kreios too.
Her tears dried on her cheeks and then dried completely.
A man was talking to her. He had children with him, but she couldn't really hear him or see him. Everything was just shapes, and sounds.
She went to the guild, or rather was brought there.
Nothing mattered.
She met you and the two other children the man, Amatus, brought in at the same time.
You and the others clung to each other, and a part of her longed for the warmth shared among you. But she just watched.
Sometimes you would share food with her. She wasn't sure why you stuck around her, especially when she had little to say. Sometimes you took her hand, but she pulled away. Ash and death is all she could have.
Training to be a thief was a welcome respite. Her muscles burned instead of her mind. Gold and valuables were tangible, real, and a perfect example of how anything could be taken from anyone.
It was nice to be a taker.
Stealing turned to killing and she enjoyed the noise and chaos of revelry found in the dark parts of Lower Cusmo, even if all she did was dull every single sense with wine and palpata.
She paid her guild dues, killed when the job called for it, and every once in a while, found herself sitting with you and the two brothers.
It was a routine. She was getting used to it. Used to you.
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"Why are you leaving?" You ask as you stand in her room, watching her pack.
"Why not?" She replies flatly, avoiding your eyes as she counts out the gold she plans to take with her.
"Because—there's no reason to leave! At least not one we can't fix if we put our heads together,"
"I'm sick of this place," Desma says, finally looking at you.
You stare at her and Desma has to look away. You once told her, on a night where she was far too drunk and sitting entirely too close to you that she had eyes the color of moonlight.
The moon was always alone in the sky.
"What do you mean, you're sick of it," you ask quietly.
"Just am. There's nothing here for me. I'm leaving,"
Desma gave up on counting and just scraped the gold off the table and into her bag.
"There are people here that care about you. I care about you. I though we—"
She needs you to stop talking. The back of her eyes are burning and her high is wearing off and you're still trying to talk to her and make her—no.
She stalks toward you, taking out a dagger.
"There is no we. There is no us. There are no people here for me. I have no one! Do you understand?! You mean as much to me as everything else does! Nothing!"
She can feel her heart hammering and her eyes just won't stop stinging. She turns just as she feels wetness on her cheek, grabs her stuff and shoves past you.
She buys herself a room far from the guild, near Mara's territory, just outside the Butcher's Block.
One of the frightened girls greets her and shows her to the room.
There, three pitchers of wine deep and her pipe smoked to ash, she looks out of the window, the sound of cheers heard from the fighting pits.
Plenty of time to kill.
Plenty of fights to be had.
Nothing else better to do.
