[se] chaos is all they know

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Steady, stalwart reeds, formidable things, vows and assurances made in a different time and place. Flower crowns for mischief and merriment, for games and tactics, for individuals coming together instead of falling apart. Were she to ask he might’ve answered, given descriptions of moments not measured in grief, agony, trauma, and devastation – but he collected the potential, scouring away at the long grass, plucking, picking, and choosing for an event he had no intention of participating in this year. Have you heard of Fiat Lux? Of what the festival was meant to represent (and ultimately hadn’t, last year, not at the very end). Maybe she’d gathered sagacity and knowledge of it from elsewhere, another individual with experience from winsome movements, liberated designations, and not the doom and gloom of prior intervals. He managed to snort at her reaction, but pleased just the same – eager, fervent, exactly what he’d expected from her. His head remained tilted, grass still tucked amidst his maw and poking out from the sides of his mouth (a bit less formidable, perhaps), listening as she struggled to justify wanting the position, without being she had the qualifications. Why not? Do you not trust my judgement? He rumbled and slung back her way, a little tease, a little taunting in the goading provocations. Deimos wouldn’t have asked her if he thought she couldn’t handle it – strong and formidable, practical and willing, longing to learn more, to become better, to adapt, to improvise, and to pursue more strengths. I believe you are capable.

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