Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Mage-glass again, with the potential of dragons hoarding it – based on its rumored strength and capabilities, the item would be a grand thing to hold, to have, and something Zariah, or any other vile, tyrannical sorcerer, should never snag or ensnare. He nodded at the potential, musings and machinations pondering over the likelihood of more descents into calamity for these treasures – how many of them would want, would crave, would yearn for more pieces of power, of might, of fortitude, of ways to be better than others, of ways to topple towers, of ways to divide kingdoms. If it was worth it in the end, to go digging for the fortune, or to continue harboring, harpooning, their own means, measures, and Machiavellian qualities of fortitude.
His eyes on the wooden resin of the table, he missed her faltering smile, lifting his gaze back to her only when the next set of intonations flickered over. “It is fine,” fine that the metal was scorched in the flames, that it too was eaten, swallowed, and consumed; better the protective forge he could easily remake, than Kiada herself. He wasn't angry, irate, or upset about the destroyed, melted, molded filaments. The Sword wouldn’t have thought of it either – only grabbed whatever was on his frame, his figure, his bag, Zuriel, and marched straight toward the flames in effort to save people, not wares, not buildings, not munitions. Those could be replaced.
The lengths of his curiosity had only been instilled so he could practice the fine art again, with a twist, if she accepted. “Would you like more?” The boundaries of his capabilities were already searing and simmering below his skin, emboldened, daring, ready, willing, waiting, because now it could be better, bigger, grander, and stronger.
His eyes on the wooden resin of the table, he missed her faltering smile, lifting his gaze back to her only when the next set of intonations flickered over. “It is fine,” fine that the metal was scorched in the flames, that it too was eaten, swallowed, and consumed; better the protective forge he could easily remake, than Kiada herself. He wasn't angry, irate, or upset about the destroyed, melted, molded filaments. The Sword wouldn’t have thought of it either – only grabbed whatever was on his frame, his figure, his bag, Zuriel, and marched straight toward the flames in effort to save people, not wares, not buildings, not munitions. Those could be replaced.
The lengths of his curiosity had only been instilled so he could practice the fine art again, with a twist, if she accepted. “Would you like more?” The boundaries of his capabilities were already searing and simmering below his skin, emboldened, daring, ready, willing, waiting, because now it could be better, bigger, grander, and stronger.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
