[seasonal event] fell to the top

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Despite this being an opportune time to mention how he’d acquired knowledge of this threshold – of the monsters (but not?) layered within – through trade and some malicious looking features - he didn’t betray Jiao. He kept his word, silent and still, tilting his head to listen while his eyes ran over the hustle and bustle of another market day, activity bristling. The beast didn’t think to catch anyone unawares, a mere study session, scrutiny and examination when he could, calculated measures brimming at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t have charisma, or much kindness; any of the aforementioned were reserved for those who’d managed to climb the massive walls and fortifications he’d placed, he’d molded, he’d sculpted, he’d constructed. The Fae, strangers amongst strangers, were not currently in those particular spheres; and even as the basket merchant sidled up and began demonstrating, displaying, the various instruments used to capture the emblazoned sun, he stood in hushed irreverence, watching wings and catching hints. It really didn’t matter in the end – bartering and business were interrupted by a familiar form – Delah, warrioress of the forest. He didn’t realize how little she was; and how it didn’t seem to matter that she could’ve easily been tread upon by either of the men, parting the seas of traffic and commerce, daring to glare at them. For his part, Deimos wasn’t intimidated, but knew, understood, that they were neither welcome (she’d made it abundantly clear even as Arduinna proffered their extensions) nor regarded well in the village – eyes rounding on them, waiting to see what would occur. He couldn’t pick a fight here, not one he’d win, not with so many of their own scattered amidst the square: he didn’t know much of these creatures at all, and to go into some form of barbarity, acrimony, and hostility would be downright inept and stupid. He was more calculating, forbearing, and skilled than that; they could take their leave, march down by the stream, and reconfigure what to do next. Or merely go home, as it had been suggested. Though a part of him wanted to rebel just for the sake of insurrection. The Reaper nodded his head, still quiet, but adhered to her request, turning back the way he’d come, presuming Jigano would follow, unless he interpreted everything else incorrectly and there’d be another rescue in the midst soon. “That went well,” he mused, diverted and entertained, an impish delight curling along his lips in the form of a snicker as he roamed further down the path. “There is another way to obtain baskets.” The great beast shrugged, then maneuvered himself out of range, down along the stream’s embankment, out of sight so it appeared as though they’d made haste, cleared out. At that particular notion, he crouched down along the surface of the grass, imagining a basket of his own molding and creation, striving to exceed the one’s the merchant had been peddling. It flowed and pooled from his hands, manifested and exhibited as if it’d once been part of darker timber, stained in a vivid, harsh brown, woven and woven and woven again, taut, and rigid, and then he pulled back, glanced at the basket now sitting amidst the ether. It held the barest hint of snowflakes etched into some ridges of wood, little nuances and touches where it’d come from; before the warrior's head swung back to the bard. “What do you prefer?” He had his limitations in creating – but another basket similar to this one likely wouldn’t be too difficult. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate