Damien
"I never see you at the club!"
Okay? I never see you at the creek
Okay? I never see you at the creek
The forest had no whisper of wind or gentle rustle—but a wet, gurgling exhale that came up through the ground itself. The Greatwood was drowning in its own spring. Every root and rock had gone slick; every step Damien took was a wager against the mud trying to eat his boots.
He’d been in plenty of hells—snowfields that froze your spit before it hit the ground, mountains that howled like they hated you—but this? This was new. This was a whole other kind of alive. The kind that watched you trip, then laughed about it in rustling leaves.
Aria thought it was great. The little leopard cub bounded ahead, tail high, fur plastered in streaks of filth, yowling triumph every time she hit another puddle.
“Perfect,” Damien muttered, squinting after her. “Just what we needed—enthusiasm.”
The Sidhe Village rose out of the swamp like it had been grown, not built. Trees carried homes in their arms, bridges twisted between them like vines, and every inch of ground in between looked ready to swallow a man whole. A dozen villagers were already fighting back: hauling boards, digging runoffs, barking instructions over the sound of their own sloshing boots.
Damien watched for a minute. People knee-deep in mud had a rhythm to them. It was work, plain and ugly. The kind that made you forget you were cold, or tired, or sick of being dirty. He understood that rhythm; it was what he was here to join in.
He slung his pack down, rolled his sleeves, grabbed a shovel, and waded in.
Damien (and Aria, technically) is helping clear the village paths of mud, etc. Feel free to join in. Pick up a shovel. Start a mud fight. Make a mud angel!
He’d been in plenty of hells—snowfields that froze your spit before it hit the ground, mountains that howled like they hated you—but this? This was new. This was a whole other kind of alive. The kind that watched you trip, then laughed about it in rustling leaves.
Aria thought it was great. The little leopard cub bounded ahead, tail high, fur plastered in streaks of filth, yowling triumph every time she hit another puddle.
“Perfect,” Damien muttered, squinting after her. “Just what we needed—enthusiasm.”
The Sidhe Village rose out of the swamp like it had been grown, not built. Trees carried homes in their arms, bridges twisted between them like vines, and every inch of ground in between looked ready to swallow a man whole. A dozen villagers were already fighting back: hauling boards, digging runoffs, barking instructions over the sound of their own sloshing boots.
Damien watched for a minute. People knee-deep in mud had a rhythm to them. It was work, plain and ugly. The kind that made you forget you were cold, or tired, or sick of being dirty. He understood that rhythm; it was what he was here to join in.
He slung his pack down, rolled his sleeves, grabbed a shovel, and waded in.
Damien (and Aria, technically) is helping clear the village paths of mud, etc. Feel free to join in. Pick up a shovel. Start a mud fight. Make a mud angel!
