I carried my own ashes to the mountains
Not quite trusting himself to beyond certain sections, whether this was due to a lack of strength from the sickness, an apprehensive wondering if the ailments and illness would suddenly return without warning, or a combination of both, the Sword remained along the outskirts of the Citadel. Rather than dress in beleaguered amounts of clothing, the season signifying almost nothing to the mountainsides, Deimos adjusted to the furs of his hellhound expanse, tracing over drifts with widened paws, with semblances of familiarity torn apart by fragmented worlds and things gone, gone, gone.
He swallowed down those curving notions coming to reap through his sentiments, focusing on studying, on understanding, the nature of the city, ignoring strangers, traversing and traveling down routes, streets, avenues, a firm and steady walk, a breath of sanity when everything had seemed so dark, so dim, so diminished. Clarity, a return to some aspect of normalcy in the stalking movements, in the fluid motions, in the draw of avarice and pride in his massive form. Zuriel had tucked herself somewhat behind, looking rather unimpressed with the meandering sojourn, but saying naught in its stead.
Likely because he needed it, desperately – to get out of his own way, to get out of his own head, to survey from something beyond the wounds, the scars, the inward lacerations, and the failures. That there was more to life than all his losses, than all the things broken and depleted, gone and vanquished. So he might as well have started with snow, with ice, with things he could rekindle, recall, with hardly a thought.
He swallowed down those curving notions coming to reap through his sentiments, focusing on studying, on understanding, the nature of the city, ignoring strangers, traversing and traveling down routes, streets, avenues, a firm and steady walk, a breath of sanity when everything had seemed so dark, so dim, so diminished. Clarity, a return to some aspect of normalcy in the stalking movements, in the fluid motions, in the draw of avarice and pride in his massive form. Zuriel had tucked herself somewhat behind, looking rather unimpressed with the meandering sojourn, but saying naught in its stead.
Likely because he needed it, desperately – to get out of his own way, to get out of his own head, to survey from something beyond the wounds, the scars, the inward lacerations, and the failures. That there was more to life than all his losses, than all the things broken and depleted, gone and vanquished. So he might as well have started with snow, with ice, with things he could rekindle, recall, with hardly a thought.
DEIMOS
