[se] chaos is all they know

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace He wanted to run – the semblance of freedom across long limbs and stalking strides, prowess upon prowess not angled in despair, agony, or defeat, but the loom of efforts not so evaded, not so collapsed. Deliverance, providence, liberation in muscle overtures and canvases, canine attributes solidified in Stygian ramparts, and perhaps he’d carve his way to the edge of the earth, and leave a majority of it behind, paint the apertures in nothingness. He could escape and evade then, unfurled, untangled, unleashed, from the graves, from the catacombs, from the chains following him. But it wasn’t reality, and the days of being able to hide, shirk, and erode from his problems had long since been over. Facing them head-on, defiant or enduring, stoked the measures. For now, though, he wandered. Zuriel joined, and they maneuvered along the underbrush of the long reeds belonging to the Oasis, a familiar haunt, early morning coating the world in pinnacles of light. They couldn’t quite reach him, those effervescent glows, and he didn’t stop to care, requiring constant movement, motion. Together they roamed, and his thoughts circumvented to others things – tried, strived – grabbing hold of some grass in his mouth, pulling, tugging, collecting them in hordes along a rock, the maneuvers quiet, nearly carefree. The unicorn attempted, but ended up grazing a majority of the time, until it seemed to be just the hellhound in his aimlessness, wild in his own upended abyss.

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