until my dying day

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The guards were shouting, calling over the Citadel portions, until all the clamor reached his ears. Alarmed, the Sword had rushed through from plans and outlines on his desk, striving to encompass ways they’d get rid of the void tarnishing the Tundra, without having to put so many at risk. Volunteers had always been helpful, but he, perhaps foolishly, hadn’t believed any would have joined anytime soon. Of which, he would admit, he was wrong. One glimpse towards the gates showed no purple – though perhaps the corpse of something massive. His soldiers were still calling to one another, the information rapidly spreading in either falsehoods, tall tales, or other filaments he couldn’t yet decipher – long strides carrying him on a brisk run towards the aperture, and then to the bloodstains in the snow. The vague help called in a familiar voice – even if he couldn’t recall ever seeing her as an owl. Sohalia? he answered in return, trying to figure out the shape of occurrences and happenings. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace