not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
Failure was an imminent portion to their lives – how they grew, how they rose, how they prospered, how they recovered, how they seethed and tormented themselves. Kiada’s experiences during LongNight hadn’t exactly been inevitable, but just one more of those strung-apart calamities where the acrimony, the sorrow, and the anguish stung a little harder, a little longer, a noose, a choking, drowning thing, There would be another time, another LongNight, another torturous divide; and as a supportive means, he lingered nearby too – with her in the hollowed junctures of pain, when she had to arrive at the shrine to describe, to relive, the extended moments.
Of Ru’in, gone and gone still.
A pulsing wake of calm stretched from him and over to her, attuned connections striving to brim and brew in the aching void; his eyes ghosting over the shrine’s architecture, passing offerings of stones and feathers to thread through her hands to place upon the mantle. Otherwise he was silent, waiting, watching, pondering over the wake of results and possibilities – uncertain of the deity’s moods surrounding the circumstances. He remained as a supportive juncture just the same. Should he pray? Should he bow his head and extend assurance towards her, or ask forgiveness from the god for her? Instead, his eyes lingered on prior offerings, still affixed there, extending the slightest of intonations. She tried he wanted to say.
Of Ru’in, gone and gone still.
A pulsing wake of calm stretched from him and over to her, attuned connections striving to brim and brew in the aching void; his eyes ghosting over the shrine’s architecture, passing offerings of stones and feathers to thread through her hands to place upon the mantle. Otherwise he was silent, waiting, watching, pondering over the wake of results and possibilities – uncertain of the deity’s moods surrounding the circumstances. He remained as a supportive juncture just the same. Should he pray? Should he bow his head and extend assurance towards her, or ask forgiveness from the god for her? Instead, his eyes lingered on prior offerings, still affixed there, extending the slightest of intonations. She tried he wanted to say.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
