like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Sometimes hunting was a necessity, and other moments it served as a distraction, a deterrent, a means of practice, honing skills and tactical measures. Perhaps today it was both: putting skills to the test, while allowing his mind to wander into the depths of precision and prowess, rather than anything else weighing it down. Here he didn’t require machinations or ruses, schemes or diabolical ministrations, just careful, hushed footfalls, patience, and accuracy. On his back were the familiar bow and its matching quiver, on his belt were several blades, daggers, and knives, and he’d left his rendered sled, now accompanied with wheels, over by the entrance of the labyrinth, eyeing the warren carefully in the early morning haze. The sun had risen, but just barely, intending to beat the heat, to not be worn town by alarming degrees and temperatures, while animals wandered and tended to their own sense of nourishments and meals. Whether or not his hunting partner would want to venture into the maze’s confines would be her choice – they could always seethe and torment those obnoxious squirrels if necessary. So Deimos waited, in the press of the thickened woods, beneath shadows and hovering canopies, ready to embark into honed havoc. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace