In my stomach is butterflies

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Giving her a suspicious glance and nothing more after her comment, he shook his head, dragging the sled down to the furthest point of the street. “Now just for the Tooks,” at which he wrinkled his nose. “Butchers. Mr. Took is…” he paused, trying to find the right word to describe the man. The Sword had never had a problem with him, but multitudes of others had. “An irritable sort.” Leaving it at that, and then recalling the wife in the emergency shelter…he was a bit glad the curmudgeonly duo would be at their store instead. “Fortunately, they are likely at their shop as well.” Her other response was something he’d heard echoed time and time again; usually when he, and many others, became immersed in the threats surrounding them. Based on how he’d lived through an acerbic amount of warfare, malice, and ominous bombardments, it was difficult to place all of that aside – and while he could compartmentalize to some degree, it was still a struggle to ignore the looming and exhausting trials. “I have heard these sentiments before,” he snorted, eyes narrowing along the cobblestoned and snow-laden road. “I have not stopped living. I just do not want to be irresponsible,” and pretend nothing was going on – too consumed by defending, protecting, and ensuring Halo wasn’t picked off next. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace