like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos would be all the more willing, no questions asked, no hesitations noted, to follow them into pits, amongst pendulums, and pull them ashore. Protection, safeguarding, sheltering from the storm, even if they were their own mercurial, capricious tempest, believing himself capable of withstanding any of those circumstances for the sake of someone else. He was just as quick to go and plunge headlong into his own melancholies, and perhaps that was what glorified the aspect of familial bonds, fragments and particles he hadn’t understood for far too long. Before he simply lost everything – and now he craved to ensure nothing else broke, or tore apart at the seams, even if it meant his strands, his shoulders, bore too much weight. Not a complaint issued or ensued, carrying on and on and on until he perished. The mountain watched the spark and sizzle of the fire now, rotating the spit occasionally, listening to her recent bouts of frustration and change. He mused and mulled while she spoke, gaze drawn over cinders and embers, a sullen sigh tucked into his chest, into his bones, flaring and radiating outward. “And there never seems to be any explanation given.” The beast knew better than to ask the gods; their scathing tenacity towards invocations wouldn’t lend anything but the parallels of lecture or distaste; and still no answers after the notched claims. “Magic seems to wax and wane, or appear out of nowhere.” An agreement with her on the noticings, the comings and goings, the strength in her electricity verified by the screech and smolder of its decibels, its rage, its potency. “But the longer we are here, the more we gain.” Perhaps those simplistic sentiments were the only ruminations they would be able to utilize or fathom, comprehend or understand, too many other trials and tribulations buried, then unfurled, before them. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace