The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps they’d all come from lives not meant for gifts, acceptance, or tolerance, and it was all the more startling when granted so readily here. Helovia’s acts of kindness and compassion had been fleeting in the faces and foundations of upheaval, devastation, ruin, wreckage, and chaos. Caido seemed to offer it in spades. So he aimed to return the favor; this was what he was used to - extending, offering, instead of having it placed upon him. On Sascha’s agreement and accord, Deimos reflexively stared at the ground, then to his own digits, failing to notice any tears or overwhelmed statures, gathering magic within his palms. They started as their routine, gilded formation, vestiges and figments of wooden arches and glossed timber beginning to take shape between his hands, then extended slowly, building the configuration, an assembling of wares and weaponry. Eventually, between minute, scrupulous assembly, the bow took on its intended formation: copper-toned, meant to reflect sunshine dispositions, a brighter, cheerier hue than some others he’d made (like Sunjata’s, a darker onyx). Details etched and sketched their way into the foundations too, along the bottom, depictions of solar rays and life, the buoyancy and ebullience Sascha so often radiated. A matching quiver joined, the same semblances embossed and embedded, before he finally raised his head, extending the gifts properly; awaiting approval or the opposite. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace