DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Another day, another expedition, and another attempt at unraveling the shambles and mess of the current bedlam. New information, new sources, and new outliers presenting themselves were a step in the right direction, and while irritated other attempts had failed to produce anything of value, this could be something worthwhile. He could apply strength, diligence, and might into that – action, multitudes of machinations, beyond the anguish, the melancholy, the bestial weight pummeling down shoulder blades and spines.
The lilies were reminders from days of the blight, where they carried roses in their hands and lacerated friends with thorns; though perhaps this method would be kinder, gentler, and a way to appease the searing masses. He made no mention of his current state either; feeling the rush of the sickness coiling back upon him, the pitch and rise of something looming down his spine, a warning, a refrain, a coming of moments, time, ample cues, where he could only manage and hold back the ailments for so long. Perhaps his movements towards the supposed healing sanction would be able to provide segments and extensions, before he collapsed back into that mired threshold. He didn’t long to return to the delirium, the lunacy, the aches, or the unknown.
Morgan led them through the Climb, and he followed amongst the rest, eyes taking in surroundings, memorizing footfalls and placements, in case future trips were required. In case something else went awry. Preparation and machinations were a key aspect of his existence, and he relied upon them now – as eyes widened at the sight of the springs (at the sudden longing for the Aurora Basin – at the bizarre pang of homesickness clawing over his heart). He would’ve stood there in reflection, in repose, had the directions not been applied towards them – his gaze instantly going to the Chief. “Chulane and I can go this way,” a gesture of his jaw, segmenting and pointing towards the right.
The lilies were reminders from days of the blight, where they carried roses in their hands and lacerated friends with thorns; though perhaps this method would be kinder, gentler, and a way to appease the searing masses. He made no mention of his current state either; feeling the rush of the sickness coiling back upon him, the pitch and rise of something looming down his spine, a warning, a refrain, a coming of moments, time, ample cues, where he could only manage and hold back the ailments for so long. Perhaps his movements towards the supposed healing sanction would be able to provide segments and extensions, before he collapsed back into that mired threshold. He didn’t long to return to the delirium, the lunacy, the aches, or the unknown.
Morgan led them through the Climb, and he followed amongst the rest, eyes taking in surroundings, memorizing footfalls and placements, in case future trips were required. In case something else went awry. Preparation and machinations were a key aspect of his existence, and he relied upon them now – as eyes widened at the sight of the springs (at the sudden longing for the Aurora Basin – at the bizarre pang of homesickness clawing over his heart). He would’ve stood there in reflection, in repose, had the directions not been applied towards them – his gaze instantly going to the Chief. “Chulane and I can go this way,” a gesture of his jaw, segmenting and pointing towards the right.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
