[seasonal event] scrapes the sky and scars the earth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The morning pressed into his skin, and he ventured, ventured, ventured, retracing old footpaths, bow slung on his back, intending to revisit previous haunts. Practice and routines were an imminent course too, swords, blades, and incantations eternally familiar, the weapons an extension of his existence, the enchantments a pulsing, beating, wild portion of his life. His archery, however, had gone by the wayside without hunting, when the claws of LongNight dragged their piercing slates down their spines, when distraction after distraction loomed greater than the slide of bowstrings. They’d made advancements on all sides to some degree – portals opened, mountains echoing and haunting, consequences rendered great and small, the barracks molded into the scenery, signals of renewal and rebirth. So perhaps he could warrant these movements, brushing over tall grass, lingering along the edges of apple trees, the trickle of water. The penetrating depths of his gaze wandered, wandered, wandered, catching over movements of branches and boughs, of birds taking flight, of other wildlife drumming within the sanction. He inhaled a breath, a steadying, mighty force coiling in his chest, eyes scouring the playing field – until they caught the bewildering maneuvers of the memory mud. Today some had ventured along the middle of a tree trunk, clinging to its surface, and he studied, examined its motions for seconds, scrutinizing, meticulous in his concentration and focus, quiet movements and rustles of fabric the only notion or sign he was conspiring. He brought the bow forward, reached behind him to grab hold of an arrow waiting in its quiver, and notched. Within those singular moments, there was only the earth and the subtle ferocity lingering along his blood, a reaching of strings, pulled taut and tight by brawn, by vehemence, by the marks and aspirations of precision. Then he released, unleashed, allowed it to fly, enough power and force behind its volley to launch straight into the mud with a thud. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace