Deimos’ last attempts at Luxere coaxing had been an utter disaster. While he tended to enjoy the trips and sojourns straight into annihilation and discord, this one had the opposite effect of his ambitions, and he hoped not to repeat it. His chances of sighting the elusive, illuminating beasts were scarce at best – too much darkness brewing and brooding its way through his existence – and watching his resources burn had obliterated any and all opportunity in the phase.
But he was stubborn, tenacious, an obstinate individual hellbent on acquiring what he wanted, even if it was a set of glowing antlers and an answer to legends and rituals. So he gathered more fruit, a few apples still resting beneath a tree, neglected by others. Some were a bit bruised, but it was all he had left, and the meager attempts looked rather pathetic bundled in his arms. He’d pondered over obtaining more hay, but most of it was likely damaged by snowfall, or simply left to fallow and wither, not much use to anything or anyone but cows or goats, those with enduring stomachs.
The Reaper presumed the oasis might be a better option; enriched with tangible outlines of serenity and tranquility, despite his traipsing motions and obvious cretin, miscreant movements. Wouldn’t this be a suitable place for those blessed and drenched in peace, in repose? He wouldn’t truly know; his life was an outline of blissful sketches, and then subsequent torment, misery, and melancholy – but he breathed easier here, didn’t feel a weight across his shoulders.
This time he’d gone in the early afternoon, giving himself time to find a spot to place the fruit, lining them up along an expanse of snow-laden grass and ferns. The soldier avoided the shrine nearby entirely, too forsaken and abandoned to give a single thought to proffering pleas and bargains; he made his own path, swallowed and consumed the costs when they bit and tore into his flesh. Then he tucked himself behind a tree, whittling away some hours, moments, and intervals by gathering a few bundles of moss, presuming they’d be adequate supplies to stuff in his floorboards, to quiet the already hushed domicile.
