who we are and all that we're trying to be
Despite the fact that Deimos had grown up within ocean ramparts and sea fortifications, he’d never actually seen a volcano, dormant or otherwise. The same could be said for his life spent amongst the Aurora Basin, the summits never blowing their tops, the blended hues never churning to smoke, fumes, or poisons. He’d read and heard about them, but to survey the blown portions, the demolition left behind, and the world recovering around it, was an intriguing sight to behold. Power, might, and the things that came after, chaos, bedlam, rolling into one figment and faction, and then what happened thereafter. Repose, if for an instant, before the next cycle or wave?
Pondering devastation, the black dog wandered further out to the shoal and shore, gazing along this portion of the beach. It was littered with debris, but of the human variety, trash, sediment, and rubble left from whatever had occurred. Intrigue had brought him out here, but perhaps the purpose, the need, for movement, for action, would keep him amidst its dunes.
He grabbed hold of some garbage and refuse, clustering it together tightly in his jaw with an audible snap, and removing it from the dampened sand before the waves could carry it back out. The hellhound began to start a small pile, clambering it further up the embankment, figuring he could always burn the residue when he was done.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
