unburned and alive

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Changes and alterations in proportions meant he had time to experiment and explore on venues he’d be unlikely to once ramble within. But the Sword wanted it without the mountains, without the backdrop of prying eyes or sneering features, and so after his ventures with Oliver, he opted for preambles and preludes into the Greatwood. Belial beckoned close and fast, while Zuriel meandered behind. The peryton had never been immersed within the wood, and the unicorn knew it well from years, cycles, and seasons before, when sometimes pressing their feet into the forest floor was all they’d known beyond the barrier. For now though, Deimos kept his eyes on the ground, rather than the air, or the winding pathways. Now was a time he craved existences of those like D’art or Zikar-Sin, who knew their way around his inquiries and intervals, and would’ve done so without question, without fail. Instead, he might be left to his own devices, and these weren’t battlefield measures. They were dastardly and covert; no swinging of a blade, no flaring of fire. A lack of education, on the layers built between bile, vitriol, and venom. So they walked, deeper and deeper, until he crouched beside brambles and nettles of unknown herbs, perplexed, nose wrinkled, lacking in the knowledge necessary to identify, to know exactly what he craved. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace