DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
There was an intriguing sense of camaraderie amongst the horde of flower crowns, woven structures, or painting candles – all the more since Arialla seemed incredibly willing to beseech those clearly ignorant in the art (for which Deimos would probably remain). Even Wessex, away from the midsts of silence, joined in.
Chulane, unfortunately, would have about the same amount of luck as the Sword had when it came to blending flowers and arranging them together. They bent and whirled underneath his hand, but then sprung back upwards, so anyone daring to wear the diadems might have come away with wounds along their scalp. He’d be free to try again, fix the situation, or maneuver to his last station.
Arialla’s efforts paid off remarkably with the wreaths. Seashells stood out, making someone likely believe she hailed from Torchline, blending and staying nicely with the olive branches, the flowers carefully chosen. A more curious, speculative, or prying individual might have asked, might have wondered, about the other portions – but there it was in the end, a true testament to worlds far, far gone.
Deimos wrinkled his nose at Arialla’s comment, eyeing the florets suspiciously – then shrugged off the frustration. “Perhaps another time.” Airing his frustrations on tiny petals wasn't going to happen, so he opted out, clearly seeing where he was lacking. Leaving the rest to it the crowns, once more considering he could merely wear them and not fashion them into anything in particular, he meandered over to the candles. His stare roamed over Wessex’s perfected adornments. A shrug embellished its way through his shoulders, and he so desperately craved to create the manifested artwork merely by magic – but he’d been the one subjecting them all to the same task. With a sigh, he began to lightly brush over portions and pieces of gold, firm reminders of an individual he’d lost.
Wessex managed to make far better crowns than either Deimos or Chulane (though…that wasn’t a great task), making up for the broken parts with her shadow, until they managed to become something staying together, less formidable or prosperous as Arialla’s. Maybe natural talent for arranging flowers was hard to come by.
Once more, the group would be free to move onto other stations, or stay at the one they’d chosen.
--
Arialla is the queen of wreaths and flower crowns, and the rest of us are not.
You can keep working at your station, or move to another!
Arialla’s efforts paid off remarkably with the wreaths. Seashells stood out, making someone likely believe she hailed from Torchline, blending and staying nicely with the olive branches, the flowers carefully chosen. A more curious, speculative, or prying individual might have asked, might have wondered, about the other portions – but there it was in the end, a true testament to worlds far, far gone.
Deimos wrinkled his nose at Arialla’s comment, eyeing the florets suspiciously – then shrugged off the frustration. “Perhaps another time.” Airing his frustrations on tiny petals wasn't going to happen, so he opted out, clearly seeing where he was lacking. Leaving the rest to it the crowns, once more considering he could merely wear them and not fashion them into anything in particular, he meandered over to the candles. His stare roamed over Wessex’s perfected adornments. A shrug embellished its way through his shoulders, and he so desperately craved to create the manifested artwork merely by magic – but he’d been the one subjecting them all to the same task. With a sigh, he began to lightly brush over portions and pieces of gold, firm reminders of an individual he’d lost.
Once more, the group would be free to move onto other stations, or stay at the one they’d chosen.
--
You can keep working at your station, or move to another!
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
