[Seasonal Event] stitch away from making it

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper enjoyed his armor. It fit right over his heart and soul with animosity, vehemence, and stoic plates, iron-forged and bestial, a barbaric contortion nestled in thorns and brambles. Accompanied with his ramparts, parapets, and daggers, he was a force to be reckoned with, denied, left to his own devices. It was so much easier that way – rarely questioned, rarely glanced upon, rarely acknowledged. It kept others at bay, so he wouldn’t hurt, so he wouldn’t bleed, so he wouldn’t concave and erode before their very eyes – he’d done it so many times, corroded and fallen apart, flickered and dying underneath eaves and below bridges, suffering in silence. He tormented himself because then no one else could do it to him; how much more could they damage a man who lived amidst his own perilous anguish? It was sad and pathetic, to shy away from vulnerability, shuddering away from the exposure, the weakness, the susceptibility, but he tucked himself away regardless, head down, eyes on the shadows, the darkness, waiting for it to encroach upon him, smother, devour him whole. Then they kept coming to him, accepting individuals who didn’t seem to care about how unattainable, how unreachable, he’d made himself. They didn’t care that he was a weapon. They didn’t care that he was ridiculous, stubborn, and defiant. They just continued to poke at his chainmail, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d had it all before, and then they died. He’d buried them in the sand, in the fields, beside riverbeds and outcrops, one by one, breaking further and further with each turn of his shovel, with each speck of damned dirt, with each raw, clinging emotion sputtering and dying right alongside them. And still, the world pressed more and more creatures and people in his sights. Try the watery words echoed. Please try. He’d take two steps forward and then hundreds back, stuck in his muck and mire, uncertain, almost afraid of the end results, if he pushed on and they found him lacking, wanting, more empty vessel than mighty, stalwart beast. It’ll be worth it, I promise. So he listened, a habit, a routine, of dissolving and sharpening his mind while his mouth was silent. Lily had no misgivings about admitting, about agreeing, with his sentiments – they were all so lost, wandering and wayfaring and nomadic because they didn’t have anything else. But to think she felt weaker, when he had never perceived an ounce of frailty or fragility in her was an intriguing notion, and he had to look back into the shamble and shadows of woods to decipher and breathe. Behind he could understand; the rest of this earth had a head start in understanding, in comprehending, the works and pathways of this newfound place. While Deimos could tell everyone about Isilme, the roots of its hatred and animosity, the pulsing, pervading madness of glory and triumph scorching their skin, leading them onto defeat over and over again, it was only because he’d been born, lived in, their walls and tides, their sweeping sands, their chaotic embraces. The Outlanders hadn’t been christened here, brought for one reason or another by an unforeseen circumstance and enigma – and they were at the Naturals’ mercy, as rich and extended as it’d already been. Value was an interesting subject, for despite even holding his enchantments, his invocations, he felt as useless as ever; no one requested death upon anyone’s house. The warrior shifted, rising from where he’d been bent and toying with the last of the rubbish, eyeing the pile on the sled, while he mulled over what to say. “You are not worthless,” he replied first, a hand steadying the larger bulk, pulling some in various directions so it was more stable when he dragged the sled along the thawing ground. “We all have our talents. Some have not had the opportunity to be utilized. We will learn and adapt.” The Reaper’s eyes settled on her, tilting his head, a steady study of her features, of all the aptitude, expertise, and capacities buried underneath. “There are many ways to regard strength,” and here he arched his brow, the simplest of smiles brushing across his lips, before he yanked at the rope of the container. “We should find a place to burn this.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace