[seasonal event] scrapes the sky and scars the earth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The same semblance of amusement contorted its way through the General, watching the reverence sparking over the boy’s face. His might have been the same when given his first weapon, when militia training finally begun, when the hilt hit his hands, melded into his palms, eventually rendering callouses, so that the pommel eventually felt like home. Then the boy attempted, working the grip, striving and struggling to adjust to the tension – new and cutting, but something a necessary frustration. No judgment remained on his face either, knowing, understanding, comprehending the weight of ignorance in first handling the munitions, how desperately one yearned, longed to convey their capabilities, their abilities, to be something grander, something greater, something feared. On another thought, he created some gloves, and handed those to the youth as well. “Yes,” he nodded at the inquiry, only making slight adjustments along the bow, straighter, and thereafter, two arrows appeared in his grasp, ready to grant and give to the lad. “Draw it back as far as you can,” he murmured; though more muscles, more power, would have to be instilled, honed, in order to adhere to the best depth – but he also intended to scrutinize the range, explore the possibilities with prowess and potential. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace