The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Today was the bow: the long string pulled taut, arm muscles undulating under its power, prestige, and precision, savoring the entanglement of raw synergy, the push and shove of might, ferocity, in the single assimilation of movement. No thoughts. No feelings. Only orchestration of a solid, solitary breath, forcing his gaze to the target, to the bullseye, narrowing, a beating pulse of his own feral predilections hovering in the harpooning mass. Then he let go, and there was only a freeing, liberating motion of an arrow flying, whizzing, tremendous speed gained in its swift, stellar conflagrations, landing with an audible impact into the object. Another breath, mere, modest satisfaction, before notching another, a clench of his jaw, a tempestuous edge to his storm, to the predilections threatening to claw their way through intervals and insides; following the footfalls, the patterns, the distinctions of the weapon in his hands, another release, another suspension of prowess – lowering the bow when the sound of an individual’s feet stirred along the grounds. His head twisted in the direction of the onlooker; the precise accord of his nonchalant, apathetic countenance suddenly something else altogether one he realized who it was. Sascha – whom he hadn’t seen since last LongNight – earning the slightest arches of a smile along his mouth. “Sascha,” he implored over the grounds, arching his brow, infernal curiosity at the healer’s behest. “What brings you here?” Not a soul to be tangled or tarnished by the notion of bloodshed; despite his attempts at training and trials. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace