Rage, maybe rage would lift me up
A continual reach, a climb and clamber for resources that seemed endless in the open, in the plains of veneer, fathoms, depths, the water claiming everything and nothing all at once. A dive, a spin, and he was in the clutches of the undulations again, rising above their strength, their fortitude, their might, and carving his own. Gill after gill, scale after scale, fish after fish, all granted and given to the rock, so they could be offered in return to people, to survivors, to those who didn’t have the chances, the opportunities, to hunt down the prey.
Gambits and games, policies and politics, diplomacy and discourse; he wasn’t immune to it, played his part in constructing, in conniving, in extending information and receiving it in return. They’d always had that going for them – the Flood and the Sword – and when not grumbling at one another in idle truces, they had their fair share of open flames, of torrents and circumventing nooses. Even exchanges, places to seek and reach, no demons quite tamed, trailing over fringes, boundaries, prospering in the hopes that somewhere along the way there’d be more than just their mere efforts – something meaningful, something transparent, something tangible, to topple, to discard, to crack. Did you ever find the Fae you sought? The name the Deimos had granted; uncertain if it was the right one or not. But then the trial for the involvement of the Mathair; nothing he didn’t already know, considering his long conversation with Juniper. Do you believe a trial will truly happen? He was very careful to not expose the doubt, or to wonder about the tangibilities of those in the Greatwood now. He’d seen them once as pillars of earthly, enigmatic strength, viewed some of their capabilities – and now he could only meander upon the sides, daring to stare within.
Gambits and games, policies and politics, diplomacy and discourse; he wasn’t immune to it, played his part in constructing, in conniving, in extending information and receiving it in return. They’d always had that going for them – the Flood and the Sword – and when not grumbling at one another in idle truces, they had their fair share of open flames, of torrents and circumventing nooses. Even exchanges, places to seek and reach, no demons quite tamed, trailing over fringes, boundaries, prospering in the hopes that somewhere along the way there’d be more than just their mere efforts – something meaningful, something transparent, something tangible, to topple, to discard, to crack. Did you ever find the Fae you sought? The name the Deimos had granted; uncertain if it was the right one or not. But then the trial for the involvement of the Mathair; nothing he didn’t already know, considering his long conversation with Juniper. Do you believe a trial will truly happen? He was very careful to not expose the doubt, or to wonder about the tangibilities of those in the Greatwood now. He’d seen them once as pillars of earthly, enigmatic strength, viewed some of their capabilities – and now he could only meander upon the sides, daring to stare within.
DEIMOS
