ISKRA
Leaving the details of mischievous sleds and fire dancing to Deimos' capable hands, Iskra will further help where needed in regard to either, but for now, focuses on the present challenge of clearing this fallen tree. Their work progresses well, helped along by Deimos' prowess, no stranger or axes or wood himself given he runs a city that thrives on the fuel. He just didn't make it his daily habit the way Iskra did.
As they load up the sleds, Iskra shifting to ensure nothing will comes spilling out with careless stacking, he nods easily to the question. "Better than I have in a long time," he agrees, a certain quiet lowering his voice. It's not shame, as it had once been, but the recognition of a past self he's started to lose touch with, unable to recognize the way he thought and acted a year or so ago now. It's frightening, really, to look back and see how clearly lost he'd been, and yet how firmly he'd convinced himself trudging round and round over hurt was a fine path to take. "Grief take time," he says carefully, adding on, "but it also takes support. I hid when I should have asked for help. But, I hope I won't be so foolish as to do it again." He knows without a doubt that he'd still be wandering that same trail without Melita shouldering him towards somewhere new, and before her, he might have been dead long ago were it not for Goose.
Surveying their sleds, Iskra nods along to Deimos' idea. "Sounds good," he affirms, the shape of the warden already changing, the new four-legged version arresting Goose's gnawing of the branch. His head jerks around, one section of his lip caught under a front fang, ears strained towards Deimos with clear interest. "He's busy!" Iskra calls over to Goose, catching the clear sight of a dog about to make a poor choice. "You should be too. Stacy." Goose sighs impressively and resumes his gnawing, though the sideeye he flicks their way tells the story of his thoughts. Fortunately he seems likely to stay put, so Iskra grabs hold of the other sled's line and begins to heave it through the snow and march on towards the first house Deimos leads them to.
As they load up the sleds, Iskra shifting to ensure nothing will comes spilling out with careless stacking, he nods easily to the question. "Better than I have in a long time," he agrees, a certain quiet lowering his voice. It's not shame, as it had once been, but the recognition of a past self he's started to lose touch with, unable to recognize the way he thought and acted a year or so ago now. It's frightening, really, to look back and see how clearly lost he'd been, and yet how firmly he'd convinced himself trudging round and round over hurt was a fine path to take. "Grief take time," he says carefully, adding on, "but it also takes support. I hid when I should have asked for help. But, I hope I won't be so foolish as to do it again." He knows without a doubt that he'd still be wandering that same trail without Melita shouldering him towards somewhere new, and before her, he might have been dead long ago were it not for Goose.
Surveying their sleds, Iskra nods along to Deimos' idea. "Sounds good," he affirms, the shape of the warden already changing, the new four-legged version arresting Goose's gnawing of the branch. His head jerks around, one section of his lip caught under a front fang, ears strained towards Deimos with clear interest. "He's busy!" Iskra calls over to Goose, catching the clear sight of a dog about to make a poor choice. "You should be too. Stacy." Goose sighs impressively and resumes his gnawing, though the sideeye he flicks their way tells the story of his thoughts. Fortunately he seems likely to stay put, so Iskra grabs hold of the other sled's line and begins to heave it through the snow and march on towards the first house Deimos leads them to.
Swinging my axe, instead of sleeping
Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding
Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
Swinging my axe, my splinters are bleeding
Swinging my axe, these cuts are too deep and I feel like I’m freezing
