The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It was appreciated: Deimos had a way of considering each gift and artifact offered to him with a singular sort of reverence, beholden, awed, quietly backing into his reserve when he was overwhelmed with the benevolence of others. Amalia’s beatifically carved whale from last summer’s celebration still sat on his nightstand, Auni’s little makeshift gifts had found their way along the hearth’s mantle, and any other treats or trinkets received had won over his heart quickly. “You did very well,” and he hastened another soft breath, long and low, beating and beckoning from his chest; proud of a fellow artisan’s efforts, humbled that he’d been chosen to showcase the wares. His eyes glanced back up to see the effervescence again, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. Because this was precious and he wouldn’t make light of it. Placing the paper down on the ground, he inspected the sheath carefully, and then shifted it along his waist, over the weapons belt he’d already had manifested (poorly and plain, nothing compared to this fine example), adhering it, admiring it, the smile locked over the plains of his face – losing the essence of nonchalance the more and more Sascha rambled along, boyish qualities hovering there now, like he hadn’t been lost in seas of war and stretches of terror for days, months, years on end. “I shall have to try it.” Putting the bow back where it belonged, he reached for the sword he had leaning against the barrack walls, inclining towards the healer once more in order to ensure proper fit. The steel slid within, as if it were another home, and the grin manifested wholeheartedly; perhaps saying enough in its existence, more than his words ever could. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace