who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos still, at times, found it difficult to accept assistance. There was a wild streak of independence within his form, from years of self-imposed isolation and desolation, an abandonment of other figures and inhabitants, conforming to a habit of supporting himself. In other seasons, he’d done the exact opposite, molding a kingdom, or adhering to strategy amidst numbers on the battlefield, working along an assembled mass of friends, comrades, and allies, fighting to ensure they all survived the next few feral moments. Caido had established itself in such compassionate, beneficent measures, he was sometimes momentarily uncertain what to do or how to consider anything other than munitions; then it would fade, the customs sticking to his entity too, and he morphed, altered, his actions and machinations to them instead of on a singular analysis. Yet, here he was, stunned, baffled, and bewildered by a stranger’s intentions again, before establishing a sensation of renewal and mutual exchanges, muffling the strangled laughter in his throat, managing to shake his head at himself and naught more.
What had become of him?
Hide or antlers could be parted with; his main goals had been a storage of meat for the incoming winter and duration of Long Night. If he craved to have either of the former, he could always return to the forest later, preparations extended in earnest and haste. “You may have both,” he proffered. The sinew and flesh of the deer would be a welcome attribute for anyone, though he narrowed his eyes for an instant in speculation. “Ensure you have a safe location before Long Night.” Advice from prior experiences, when the world had become a haunted platitude, a treacherous precipice, demons and monsters striking from the constant, enduring evening, the twilight obscuring their advances, their claws, their inveigling notions until it was too late. No one need repeat the poignant, acrimonious occasion – though it led him to wonder how it would be effected by the opening of the Greatwood; a sentiment to consider before the sun failed to rise and the moon seared.
As for lone wolves – his nonchalance took on a more ambivalent line, kinder on the fringes, calculating along the middle. Machinations surged as he weighed his options: while he’d yearn the thought of the chase, of leaping and churning long limbs into the undergrowth, of gnashing teeth and carnivore abysses, it wasn’t entirely practical – he could be quiet and silent, but the moment he pummeled a twig, a fallen branch, a mistaken bough, their chances would deplete quickly. “You can chase it to me,” his decision loomed – bowstring pulled taut again, ether of a hunter, of a warrior, of a beast willing to slay another, waiting, ready, to crouch back into position.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
