Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
He looked up from his machinations and work at the barrage of compliments, tempted to smother them down and refuse them. But at the Ascended’s smile, at the notion that this was something good that he hadn’t managed to ruin, the tiniest indent of a grin formed within the crook of his mouth. “I have not.” His renderings of artistic work had commonly been in blood and in battle, streaks of fallen ichor and canvases of skirmishes an oeuvre, an opus, to vehemence and violence. Here, where creation magic simply unfurled with whatever his mind concocted, it was far more simplistic. But no, he hadn’t meandered down into reaches of creative components. He sketched and etched in armor, dabbled in maps, or gave little tokens to friends.
The monolith handed over the dragonling next, before corresponding to the unicorn, using his own as a muse. The dark gray hues blended neatly into the obsidian mane, the glowing, unnaturally blue horn, and the proud, noble disposition along features, carving along hooves while Bastien spoke of Kiada. “Kianzo. He was part of our kingdom. Took after his father.” And the tones might have suggested this wasn’t anything to be impressed with; since the Reaper’s discussions with Tembovu had never gone smoothly.
He wasn’t sure if he expected the acceptance, or merely thought himself too much at fault, within the blame, to be permitted in the making of the memorial. The surprise might’ve settled itself along the widening of his eyes, and then he went back to the unicorn toy. “Some symbolic things.” Suns. Eclipses. Cloaks. Daggers. Representations of who and what she’d been. “Could we put a similar one for Kiada nearby?” As much as the Harpy might not have liked the notion; but she couldn’t be with her mother right now – so perhaps more in thought than in spirits and souls.
The monolith handed over the dragonling next, before corresponding to the unicorn, using his own as a muse. The dark gray hues blended neatly into the obsidian mane, the glowing, unnaturally blue horn, and the proud, noble disposition along features, carving along hooves while Bastien spoke of Kiada. “Kianzo. He was part of our kingdom. Took after his father.” And the tones might have suggested this wasn’t anything to be impressed with; since the Reaper’s discussions with Tembovu had never gone smoothly.
He wasn’t sure if he expected the acceptance, or merely thought himself too much at fault, within the blame, to be permitted in the making of the memorial. The surprise might’ve settled itself along the widening of his eyes, and then he went back to the unicorn toy. “Some symbolic things.” Suns. Eclipses. Cloaks. Daggers. Representations of who and what she’d been. “Could we put a similar one for Kiada nearby?” As much as the Harpy might not have liked the notion; but she couldn’t be with her mother right now – so perhaps more in thought than in spirits and souls.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
