near half-empty

Deimos His eyes fell away from the branches and onto her at her final statement; he’d nodded in understanding towards no holes, figuring it’d be best to bring back everything tangible and corporeal, despite the deadened contortions. It was everything else that followed that gave him pause, lifting his brow into those age-old, familiar veneers of nothingness: blank, stoic, completely utterly reserved. He’d been shattered once before, regardless of which land, of which world: dead and gone, perished and vanquished, no amount of strength, power, or fortitude lasting, not when the Reaper had been reaped. And he wondered if he was just doomed and damned to repeat the cycle, to wander with cumbersome weights upon his shoulders, refusing to bend, refusing to break, until it happened again. He’d disappeared. He’d died. All his accomplishments, all his brutality, all his menace, gone and billowed into the void. Deimos heaved a monumental sigh, traces of the audible, and then said absolutely nothing, absorbed into silence. His eyes flickered over greenery, too alive, too fresh, too new, and that punctured somewhere, and it would’ve been nice to return to some point in life where not everything felt like a damned wound. Libbs’ squeal broke him out of the irritating resonance, gaze segmenting back to the fellow Artisan and her findings. He took the browned filaments, inspecting, only to find some greenery on the edges. “A good start. Where did you find it?” Perhaps it would have more of the same, and they could find one completely decrepit, but not yet succumbed to falling apart. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime