[KQ] i wanna give you back the open sky

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It was as if he’d learned nothing: straight back into potential danger and ruin. The last time they’d all been here, together, the world had erupted and blistered, torn open lines and drawn them bloody, monsters rising and falling, people screaming and dying. Then it was over, and there’d been a sensation of freedom, of burdening, scathing curiosity, leading them down rabbit holes and warrens with canopies. So now they went back. He’d stocked his bag of supplies more readily this time, hoping preparation would be the key (perhaps calculating endeavors this time, instead of racing headlong into screams, into landslides, into chasms of the unknown). He’d grabbed a roll of plain bandages (since he’d been the injury prone, designated target of tentacles, rocks, and any other walk of life), and various digging tools, some smaller, more compact in hopes they’d be collapsible and could fit inside his satchel easier. The beast supposed he could create tools and weaponry if need be – because he didn’t know what was down there – but wanted to have some machinations and munitions already in place; a bow and quiver on his back, several daggers lodged along his belt for either himself or compatriots. Food was a necessity, as well as a canteen of water, some gloves already placed on his hands (and a few extras lying in the pack too). His clothing was plain, but sturdy, utilized frequently when training, fitted close enough to his form in hopes it wouldn’t catch or snag on anything lurking. It turned out he was last today. Amalia, Delah, and Jigano were already there – the warrior Fae hustling them onward, forward, without delay. He arched a brow but said naught, turning to the baker to accept her proffered scarf, tying it around his neck, ready to pull up and over his mouth in case of fumes. The warrior’s face was grim, lined only in nonchalance, chest rumbling in the consternation and apprehension of what was to come; his experiences in the cavern had not been comforting, and there was no Remi, no Isla, to save him this time. So he was silent again, hastened back into reticence and detachment, listening as Jigano spoke of serpents alongside tortoises. He inhaled sharply, conditioned himself straight into battlefield ethics, pursuits, and calamities – he couldn’t afford anymore broken hymns and dirges rising again – ready to venture, ready to succeed, ready to fight. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace