gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Nations and kingdoms, sovereigns and countries, taken apart and destroyed by war – his, as far as he’d been told, had merely been demolished by a false god, taking them all in, and then circumventing the plot with absolute devastation. Had he lived up until that point, there was no certainty he would’ve been able to survive and persist beyond that seemingly horrific day – as so many had not, their graves and catacombs lining a sanction no one could ever touch upon again. His mountains gone too, every portion of precious, beloved ice, every favored peak, every delicate hot spring, every damned, doomed contortion of rusted monoliths. The beast thought about it in those waking moments of disbelief and nightmarish quandaries, still pondering over the what ifs and may have beens; but knowing full well that he alone wouldn’t have been able to combat its disaster – just one more fool meant to perish. He continued to walk while she bounded along rocks, roots, and sunken boughs, thinking naught of her eye-level candor, her personality large enough to walk amongst the giants too. The warrior remained on his steady path, brushing aside a few lingering sticks and gnarled limbs when necessary, but there all the same, stalwart and resolute, a modicum and entity of stones, boulders, and rock; rubble sometimes immobile, rooted into its declared sanctions. His silence meant he was listening, imagining cats made of precipices, taller than fortresses and bulwarks, a strong skull smashing and bounding its way into what was believed to be protected – a small number left to engage. The beast didn’t give himself away on the strangled notion of the only one defeated: civilian baker, a brief narrowing of his eyes that ensured a conviction, a promise, a vow in his bones. Not Amalia, he reasoned with himself, certain that he and a number of others would ascertain her continued prowess and might. His thoughts lingered back into the story though, firepower and climbing, blasts – the segment of blue lightning enlightening his gaze, and he was reminded of those who’d had similar, scalding menace (Ampere – legendary, crackling endowments thrust into the sky, waging war). “Impressive,” he unleashed a small grin, a truth, alacrity in his form – he’d always be amazed by the might of others. When the inquiry rounded back to him, his stare fissured back to trees and trunks, back to canopies and underbrush. “There were always people to fight. Wars to wage. Blood to spill.” Those who wanted to steal from his kingdom, from his inhabitants, from his citizens. Those who wanted to take what was theirs – children, thieves, healers, tending to instigated fury and might, always aware the Basin would come for them, but too stupid to stop themselves. Those who had scores to settle – hundreds upon hundreds of vengeful constituents, and vice versa. Then there’d been those sunken, fallen pariahs – “Not often. There were four monsters we dealt with. It may have been one of the few times all of the kingdoms worked together.” But the Colossus’s chieftain memories were a haze now – he wished he could describe it as well as she’d done with hers. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace