[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 Deimos was incapable of hiding the grimace flooding over his face the moment Samuel noted he’d need to sing. “Sing,” he uttered, dumbfounded, like it was one of the more ridiculous requests coming out of this enigmatic world. The Reaper wasn’t a creature meant to be bursting into ditties and refrains; his singular opus and oeuvre works were canvasses and tapestries dedicated to warfare and the battlefield. They’d never been serene or tranquil either, coaxing and obliging; they’d been brutal and barbaric, streaks of red painted against dirt, soil, and earth, fire and brimstone shuddering in wakes of stains and triumphs, glories and devastations, feral defeats and savage losses. They’d represented death and finality, oblivion and condemnation, the final steps down, down, down to the wicked world below; he doubted the little luxere would be enticed by any of the nefarious works. He thought of some old drinking songs his comrades and allies would utter and call in inebriated stupors, loudly screeching and howling for the whole word to hear as they plunged swords into enemies’ chests or proclaimed another victory. He thought of the rain’s beguiling woes, and then abolished it from his mind completely, gone, erased, registering his features right back into apathy and nonchalance again. “I tried the fruit. It…exploded.” Even these scant bits of information sounded completely lame and asinine, and the beast thought about giving up the intrigue and interest altogether; it couldn’t quite possibly be worth all of this absurdity. Names and occupations were easier to oblige, and he nodded, accepting the information, placing it within his memory for later retrieval. He enjoyed books and the foundation of knowledge, those scholarly attributes passed down into his bloodline, well before he took up a weapon and ran heedless into battle. “I would appreciate it,” the fiend proffered back, because it was the truth and he already knew his situation was a bit hopeless (pathetic). Knowing any songs was different than breathing life into them, bestial and fierce, so he opted for another option. He took a massive breath, and began to whistle: a crusading tune meant to oblige warriors into marching formation, rhythmic but lacking a fundamental seditious spread. It was one he could’ve hummed in his sleep; a haunting, ritualistic pattern. It could be harmonic enough to blend into something worthwhile, if Samuel wanted to add lyrics to the notes, if the luxere were simply curious and interested in the notes, enough to be coaxed and beguiled out their hiding spaces.

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