ISKRA
Deimos cuts an imposing figure in this shape, flame standing him apart from the frozen world they travel through. The hellhound version isn't one Iskra has seen often, usually tucked away in woods and not having been overly present at some of the fights that've broken out about Caido, more like to shrug and say it wasn't his fight. It had always gotten him too close to his parents, fighting, and it's only recently he's found the strength to practice his arcane abilities enough to grow them. There's a natural calling to it, or perhaps unnatural given the shifting voices that hum whenever the magic stirs, but he holds onto those notions, too used to being a fractured man to wonder at norms.
Still, a faint laugh slips free at the notion of Deimos and Goose playing, and Iskra shakes his head as he follows along. Bits of ice shine where Deimos' heat melts some of his footsteps, and Iskra glances at them in passing. He mulls over the last bits of their conversation, the mixtures of grief and healing sitting kindly on the back of his mind.
"I know these folks," Iskra says brightly as they round upon the first house. He might not be as social as some, not as prevalent as Deimos, but this has been his home for years enough to know people in certain trades or who frequent similar spaces as he. Shuffling to the side of his sled he loads up an armful of branches and split logs from the trunk, depositing them alongside Deimos' stack. "That should do them pretty well," Iskra nods in confirmation of the delivery, returning to his sled and rope to proceed, grateful the load feels a touch lighter now as he tugs it along. "Could do a wood pile stacking contest," he muses aloud as they walk, and an idea of a massive jenga-style competiion arises in mind.
Still, a faint laugh slips free at the notion of Deimos and Goose playing, and Iskra shakes his head as he follows along. Bits of ice shine where Deimos' heat melts some of his footsteps, and Iskra glances at them in passing. He mulls over the last bits of their conversation, the mixtures of grief and healing sitting kindly on the back of his mind.
"I know these folks," Iskra says brightly as they round upon the first house. He might not be as social as some, not as prevalent as Deimos, but this has been his home for years enough to know people in certain trades or who frequent similar spaces as he. Shuffling to the side of his sled he loads up an armful of branches and split logs from the trunk, depositing them alongside Deimos' stack. "That should do them pretty well," Iskra nods in confirmation of the delivery, returning to his sled and rope to proceed, grateful the load feels a touch lighter now as he tugs it along. "Could do a wood pile stacking contest," he muses aloud as they walk, and an idea of a massive jenga-style competiion arises in mind.
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
