Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
For some reason, the notion of eating the luxere had never occurred to him. He hunted deer frequently, but not the glowing, mystical, mythical ones – likely due to his association with Auni, and their ability to save and protect. The Sword left them alone for the most part, and had only trailed after their figments and factions after the Monster Hunter’s Guild had burned to the ground. “They shield us from the monsters at LongNight,” by way of explanation, the ripple and roll of his shoulders in another shrug. They held more meaning than merely food here.
He began to lift the fire upwards again, scaled and undulating, like tides of infernos, conflagrations, and flames, the current pulling, stoking, and taking. He’d always prided himself on being the epitome of control, of precision, of meticulous, methodical stoking – capable of unleashing hell, damnation, and blood with quick executions and inherent, primordial convictions. Sometimes his frame was so attuned and adept to the melees that it required no thought at all; the life drain pulsing in his figure was eternally gathered and ready, to slink, to consume, to devour. He’d make sure each incantation, each enchantment, harbored and harpooned in the same ministrations and fate – wanted them melded and molded to a spectacular degree.
Weaver’s family sounded like an intriguing one; uncertain if his own mother would’ve done the same. It seemed more likely to be his father in the notion of foolishness or unpredictable, tempestuous swings, a man carved out of boldness and audacity, rather than Stone’s quiet, poised ferocity. “And you survived. So there is something to be said for the method.” A little grin, wild and wicked, tucked along the edges of his mouth.
He began to lift the fire upwards again, scaled and undulating, like tides of infernos, conflagrations, and flames, the current pulling, stoking, and taking. He’d always prided himself on being the epitome of control, of precision, of meticulous, methodical stoking – capable of unleashing hell, damnation, and blood with quick executions and inherent, primordial convictions. Sometimes his frame was so attuned and adept to the melees that it required no thought at all; the life drain pulsing in his figure was eternally gathered and ready, to slink, to consume, to devour. He’d make sure each incantation, each enchantment, harbored and harpooned in the same ministrations and fate – wanted them melded and molded to a spectacular degree.
Weaver’s family sounded like an intriguing one; uncertain if his own mother would’ve done the same. It seemed more likely to be his father in the notion of foolishness or unpredictable, tempestuous swings, a man carved out of boldness and audacity, rather than Stone’s quiet, poised ferocity. “And you survived. So there is something to be said for the method.” A little grin, wild and wicked, tucked along the edges of his mouth.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
