spilling dust

DEIMOS

ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood

It’d certainly been Darkeye’s choice to learn the hard way – when everyone else was extending their wisdom and sagacity. He didn’t roll his eyes, but permitted a long and slow sigh to follow through on breaths again, before snorting. Perhaps the Sword, and many others, had had the benefit of years of knowing and understanding; they’d aired their wounds and grievances long before the priest had even made it to the thresholds, maneuvering onwards, trying to salvage what they could. Outlanders for an eternity, no matter how much they instilled or ingratiated themselves.

But that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

And the cleric certainly didn’t have to tell him about deceased, perished friends; the Warden had his own, gone and vanquished. Placing some of the issues upon Sunjata didn’t bother him in the least, but hearing Darkeye stake claims in the motions caused his brow to furrow, striving to follow the lines of thought. “He is responsible for many downfalls, including his own.” He rolled and shrugged his shoulders; content to leave the Flood to disintegrate, evaporate, in the misery of his own making. “But you have an opportunity to ensure the Grounds grow strong again.” If they ever had been – it was difficult to tell. Misery hung over it like a veil.

watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same