( his stomach churns and tightens and his pulse rushes in his ears as he takes in the sight before him. a stage called The Fields, where violence is turned to sport for the masses. he wandered in here out of curiosity, now he stays because.... well he's not quite sure he wants to admit it.

he's spent so long trying to escape the Urges that plague his dreams only to have his visions be made reality. and everyone cheers. they scream and holler with glee and it sickens him as much as his own glee does. worse maybe. at least he knows he's plagued by violence. these people welcome it. chase it. display it.

deep within him there's a part that yearns to be on that stage. in those fields. the people want a spectacle but these children barely know how to wield blades. some might call it skill. they're effective after all. but there's no artistry in their flourishes. no beauty in their pierces...

he shakes his head and closes his eyes tight. )

Weak stomach? ( a man near him points and laughs with his friends. a flash of yearning runs through Deimos to gut the man and show him what a truly weak stomach is. )

Something like that. ( he murmurs as he shoves his way free from the crowds. from the arena. he presses into the street and pulls out his flute. lilting music trails in his wake as he leaves The Fields behind him and makes his way through the city for a better sort of entertainment. maybe a drink will help him sleep tonight.... )