[Seasonal Event] I know the world's a broken bone

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place He had nothing to offer. This wouldn’t be the first or last time he felt wholly inadequate in the face of the unknown. It was a distinct pattern, curled and coiled over the foundation of his existence, tangled over the roughened sinew of his flesh and bone. It was etched in his essence, bramble and thorns, as if he couldn’t go forward without a trial, without a quest, without some grand, mighty sojourn to show him the error of his ways, the flaws in his foibles, the foil in his methods and ruminations. He’d accepted it long ago, because it was a ritual, a farce, a looming tradition that he should brave the barren wastelands of his desolation and conquer whatever bestial quality awaited him. But this was just for the sight of some reindeer – and he was already set up to fail. Deimos admitted the vulnerability merely to himself. No one else needed to know, to understand, to comprehend he’d yet to encounter one. Curiosity had courted him at first, siren and intriguing, the kind of flame he followed in the dark, completely aware of the intricacies and dangers before him, and limbs ghosting after wraiths and phantoms anyway. Now the notions of glowing antlers and Luxere movements haunted him; partially because he hadn’t grasped hold of such an event, and partially because he thought it deigned him weak, inadequate, mocked, forlorn again in the outcrops of the enigmas, twisted, turned, right back upon his figure. This interval he didn’t even bother with fruit, with hay, with singing, with much of anything. His presence was a blight on the darkening horizon, and he settled himself on a rock, high in the middle of the field, setting down a bag at his side, full of things he’d already gathered, intending to take them back to his home once another failure seemed imminent. The smallest of sighs brandished its way through his lungs, perhaps the only sign of his frustration, keeping the notions tucked close to his chest and Machiavellian mindset, away from others’ sights and sounds. He grasped hold of a small piece of jerky from his satchel, ripping and tearing it apart, munching on it in the dusky silence, waiting for the sun to go down, to catch a glimpse of light from afar. Then his curiosity would be sated, he’d be satisfied, and he wouldn’t feel like the forgotten ruin, left to wither and rot.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}
Samuel