like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps if it was just the construct of this failed melee, he wouldn’t be so bothered or seething. But when it was one after another after another, no matter how much concentration, strength, and prowess molded into movements and enchantments, and they still spiraled into a mess, everything else felt like just more and more insurmountable feats. Murdering squirrels shouldn’t have taken so much time, energy, effort, or raw power, and it made him wonder for all his might, tenacity, and capability, if any of it mattered. If there was something else to be conquered. His stare went downcast for a moment, breathing in the fumes of doused flames, of curling smoke, of plumes from their abrupt massacre. In another world, he would’ve been proud of the amount of damage lain across the forest, his jaw lifted and defiant, his form seditious, an insurrection against the earth that allowed him to live, to prosper in his decadent maelstroms. Now he was merely a displaced Sword fighting to keep his loved ones alive. Hotaru was prone to his mercurial, taciturn, silent moods of inadequacy though, and must’ve known better than to feed into them. Forced to abandon the self-loathing, his stare returned to her, a shrug rippling through his shoulders. “We can cook them now.” He’d be on the onslaught for larger game later on, as it came closer and closer to winter’s expanse and LongNight, ensuring they were stocked with enough resources for the Grounds to make it through the press of snow and ominous, foreboding hell. Deimos maneuvered towards a more open area, orchestrating to her directions, bringing over some drier sticks to gather together, palms stretching out once more to erupt them into flame. Once the wood was crackling, he extended his hands apart, the gilded glow billowing between them, and a metallic spit was conjured through the air. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace