DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Damien’s hands stilled on the log he’d been shifting, the scrape of wood against wood unnaturally sharp in the silence that fell after Deimos’s words. Two friends. Two companions. Four lives vanished in a moment. He knew the risks, the speed with which a hunt could turn deadly, but there was a difference between knowing and carrying the weight of those lost names burned into your memory.
His jaw flexed slowly, as if chewing over a bitter taste. He’d heard the stories, sure. In Halo, bad news traveled faster than the wind and settled deeper than frost in your boots. You didn’t need to be there to feel it. The sorrow found you anyway, layered itself on your shoulders, worked its way under your skin. He thought about saying something easy—like I’m sorry—but those words were nothing more than paper pressed over a broken window. They didn’t stop the draft. Loss wasn’t a wound that healed. It was something you learned to live around. Damien had his own share, no dragon hunts among them, but loss cut the same cold in the end.
He drew in a long, cold breath, the kind that scraped your lungs before settling into your chest. Out in the drifts, the luxere moved in slow procession, their glowing antlers catching the pale light like fragments of a distant starfield. “May Mort keep them well,” he said at last, the words quiet but steady. In Halo, or to Damien at least, such blessings weren’t meant to comfort the living—they were offerings to the dead, small coins left at the gates of whatever lay beyond, so their memory wouldn’t slip away with the falling snow.
Damien glanced over at Deimos, catching the faint tightening in his jaw before the man turned back to his work. The pale light caught in his eyes, but it didn’t warm them. They were fixed on something far older and far colder than the snow beneath their boots. Behind him, the wind dragged thin streamers of frost across the open plain, whispering low through the skeletal trees. Even as Deimos bent to his task, Damien saw the weight lingering in that steady gaze—an echo of the harsh, unforgiving land they both called home.
"How come you keep leading the monster hunter guild, knowing what's out there? Most hunters, when they have a bad day with an Ursur, hang up their weapons for good." Damien let out a dry chuckle that carried no judgment, just the truth of hard-earned experience. He couldn’t count the old hunters in Halo who’d quit for reasons like losing half a face to a bear’s swipe—or losing half their party to one. Many of those men and women were the ones who’d sent him out for food, or hired him to deliver goods.
For himself, Damien wasn’t sure what kept him moving forward. Not courage, not a grand purpose. Maybe just stubbornness—something primal and silent that refused to let go. He wished there was something more than survival to cling to but if it existed, it was buried beneath years of cold nights and harder losses. Maybe one day he’d find it. For now, he kept going, because that was all he knew how to do.
His jaw flexed slowly, as if chewing over a bitter taste. He’d heard the stories, sure. In Halo, bad news traveled faster than the wind and settled deeper than frost in your boots. You didn’t need to be there to feel it. The sorrow found you anyway, layered itself on your shoulders, worked its way under your skin. He thought about saying something easy—like I’m sorry—but those words were nothing more than paper pressed over a broken window. They didn’t stop the draft. Loss wasn’t a wound that healed. It was something you learned to live around. Damien had his own share, no dragon hunts among them, but loss cut the same cold in the end.
He drew in a long, cold breath, the kind that scraped your lungs before settling into your chest. Out in the drifts, the luxere moved in slow procession, their glowing antlers catching the pale light like fragments of a distant starfield. “May Mort keep them well,” he said at last, the words quiet but steady. In Halo, or to Damien at least, such blessings weren’t meant to comfort the living—they were offerings to the dead, small coins left at the gates of whatever lay beyond, so their memory wouldn’t slip away with the falling snow.
Damien glanced over at Deimos, catching the faint tightening in his jaw before the man turned back to his work. The pale light caught in his eyes, but it didn’t warm them. They were fixed on something far older and far colder than the snow beneath their boots. Behind him, the wind dragged thin streamers of frost across the open plain, whispering low through the skeletal trees. Even as Deimos bent to his task, Damien saw the weight lingering in that steady gaze—an echo of the harsh, unforgiving land they both called home.
"How come you keep leading the monster hunter guild, knowing what's out there? Most hunters, when they have a bad day with an Ursur, hang up their weapons for good." Damien let out a dry chuckle that carried no judgment, just the truth of hard-earned experience. He couldn’t count the old hunters in Halo who’d quit for reasons like losing half a face to a bear’s swipe—or losing half their party to one. Many of those men and women were the ones who’d sent him out for food, or hired him to deliver goods.
For himself, Damien wasn’t sure what kept him moving forward. Not courage, not a grand purpose. Maybe just stubbornness—something primal and silent that refused to let go. He wished there was something more than survival to cling to but if it existed, it was buried beneath years of cold nights and harder losses. Maybe one day he’d find it. For now, he kept going, because that was all he knew how to do.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
