[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos Inquiry could’ve been an eventual downfall of the Reaper’s indifference and nonchalance, driven, incensed, kindled, by the measures of curiosity. He was a monolith of iniquity and wickedness, but also tended to dwell right in the sanction and sanctuary of regard, notice, and attentiveness. Once they’d ventured along the Fae forest, once they’d ensured their friends and allies were safe and sound, there was a chance, an opportunity to delve further into the midst of enigmas and quandaries. He’d already strung himself along the Stonesong, swimming against the rapids and current with Ronin, honing age-old skills, ensuring muscles felt aches and twinges again, utilized, and refined; and now he followed it down, further and further, staring along the onslaught of water, the crafty, maneuvering deluge. The roar of the brook enticed, tempted, lured; constancy and power, prowess and precision, eternally capable of overwhelming any damned foe it yearned to vanquish. That alone encouraged him, and the howling charge and onrush of the water only made him advanced further. He’d emerged from the walls of woods and trees first, basket in hand, intending to capture the sun, mantras and diction according to Ianto. Deimos had some difficulty in picturing the entire masquerade and affair, not one for rampant imagination, fancies, or visions, spending far too long grounded in reality and listening to the drums of war, no time or place to conjure mirages and images. His eyes lifted briefly to the aforementioned orb in the sky, shining and luminescent, and he placed the basket down on the ground, settling amidst the pebbles, dirt and stone, fully intending to glance along the water’s edge. If the basket managed to snag the sun’s rays on its own, he’d be all the better for it. Lingering along the threshold, aching to dive into its depths too (renewed ambitions, coiled aspirations, thriving and rippling through his lungs, his frame, his figure), his piercing gaze riveted on pieces and portions of the Whispershore. It was much more tranquil here than further up the Stonesong’s reach, serenity bubbling along the intertwining waves and confluence, without the roughened blast and ominous, foreboding arches shot across snagged boulders, carved out of years of torment. He considered taking off his shoes and dabbling along the embankment, like a ruffian, a youth, but then halted at the notion at a shiny glint below his feet. He crouched, inspecting, fingers picking up the tiny rock as lustrous as the sun itself. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime