The Reaper was woefully ignorant about this world, a common theme spreading its way through his stitches and seams. He intended to make amends with the nagging, scathing sentiment, for it clawed and sharpened its way down his ribs, through his bones, and echoed in the throngs of his mind. His travels had been bent and shaped by simple circumstances thus far, providing aid in restoring and rebuilding shops and smithies, threading his way through the oddity and nuances of blended lives, and striving to learn from past errors. But his interest had yet to flag or wane; lights harking their way through the darkness drew him in their flames, in their haunting, enigmatic splendor. They glowed and blended their way through the darkness, spreading poignant links and driving their way into his heart – he narrowed his eyes in scorn, in resentment, in the eerie melancholy managing to reach its way through his veins. It reminded him of death and things he’d lost – like bright graves and fireflies, gesturing for him to follow their pathways, to be guided straight into hell, avoiding the outreach of heaven. He remembered burying those he cherished and loved, and almost brought forth a snarl to a particular lantern nearby, and then moved on, passing one by one, fending off the itch to reach out and touch the paper-thin filaments, the blistering rays, the opulent fathoms blinking back at him.
It might be for a celebration, he thought, because there were so many gathered there in the mist and midst, holding their torches, crafting their wares, pressing guiding flickers and beams into the void. But the way some had been melded and molded together gave him great pause: bones and skeletons, perhaps honors for soldiers or warriors, and he blinked away the sudden sting behind his eyes, pretending it was a brief glimmer of rain, and even in that scandalous instant, he was hollowed and carved out. How might he have sculpted one for all the losses? His fingers went to the link of furs and reached within his pocket to ensure the tiny shred of blue cloth was still there; he clutched it, held it tightly in his grasp, then wandered further, away, away, away from the pain suddenly striking against him. He wouldn’t break: not here, not now, not ever.
Deimos caught sight of Remi and Rexanna nearby; fought the urge to crawl his way back into the darkness, where he came from, into an abyss where he could spiral and devastate without preamble. But the actions would’ve just been another way to return to the detached void, to re-enter barbarity and despair, to live forlorn, desolate, and ruined, marred, marred, and marred, scarred by every inch of flesh, never a thought, never a soul, never an essence except ash and soot. He scorched his instinct and meandered his way through; not savage, not sinister, but cold and nonchalant, attempting to remain stoic and reticent when his heart hurt in the glimpse of the unknown, in the unearthly forces dragging across his ether. His piercing gaze landed on others nearby, one looked strangely familiar again and he wondered if it was just lives blurred over again, before landing on the silent pair. “What is going on?” He intoned, neither sardonic or irreverent, simply curious, dipped in interest and intrigue, to slide, to glide, past the melancholy drenching his frame.
