gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Wandering, wandering, wandering, a custom he’d instilled within his movements and motions at a young age; childhood drifting turned to teenage, feral wildness, shifted to an adulthood where he could process, where he could meander, where he could chisel his way into something other than oblivion. The woods were calming, despite their haunted, poignant exterior, comfortable in their formidable grace, where the shadows crept, where the darkness hovered, where the copses and timber reminded him of ichor, of blood, of battlefield trenches and graves dug where his friends had fallen. But here, here, there were no sovereigns shouting their laws. There were no Loreseekers demanding, commanding, some other ridiculous, manipulative tactics. There were no bedlam traces rankling his hide, consuming his flesh. He breathed in the ether of the forest, and searched for something and nothing all at once. He hadn’t arrived empty-handed, swords and knives strapped to his belt, his bag of holding over his shoulder in case he stumbled upon an animal or plant worthy of hunting or plucking. It was a venture, a sojourn, but not useless or ineffectual. But the shimmer of movement, of light beckoning over to his left made an unearthly growl stir from his chest. He knew the presence, the essence, of a will-o-wisp; had nearly succumbed to their meandering, pandering whispers, to their duplicitous attentions (the cries of ghosts; the otherworldly shackles of something that couldn’t be mankind, taking memories and kindling them as whole, as true, as tangible strands). The beast swallowed, maneuvered away, carefully proceeding as if he hadn’t seen it at all. He understood its threatening, devious nature, the reeling exposition and exposure of such a creature – he just didn’t want part of it again, had no intention of being led astray and down into some snare, some trap, some torturous chamber. Except, then there was a savage scream. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace