[Seasonal Event] stitch away from making it

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper returned to the perch after Long Night’s end, when the haunting outcries ceased, when the intertwining, Stygian cords of endless evenings drifted off; seemingly with little fanfare, the curl of flames from the Spark Bird’s drifting off into the horizon’s threads. The lack of sinister claws hanging amidst shadowed portals and gloaming voids was a relief, but odd, as if he’d grown used to the weight of the ominous abyss’ candor, and didn’t know what to do when sanctuary, liberation, and deliverance had been proffered back to them again. It was the same time and time again, so acclimated to the depths of death, to the cold, shackled, chilling nuances, that he rarely understood what to do or how to behave when he was handed the sun, the moon, and the stars again. Just try, was a ghost in his mind; a gentle, nudging refrain, and he acquiesced to the sagacity because it was far better than anything he could surmise. He studied the long columns of wood for a moment or two; imagining the bestial, untamed shades of light glowing from the flying invocations again; peace in the chaos, bedlam in the repose. It’d been an intriguing contradiction, so much fire and power striving to bleed out the nefarious reaches, when itself was a pinnacle of combustion and disaster. He’d enjoyed seeing it nonetheless, would keep the memory tucked away to reflect upon when the darkness encroached and the lanterns’ fuel ran dry. Reminiscing hadn’t been his sole purpose for arriving though: for littered amidst the melting snow and pockets of greenery desperate to reach the newly-forged rays of sunlight, was debris. Some particles had been burnt to a crisp and likely needed to be removed, ashes, soot, and embers reeling along thin lines of grass and edges of rime. Even debris had managed to scar the area, and he pondered, briefly, what was to be done with the perch itself – burnt and blighted thanks to its gifted occupant. Would it be taken down? Or would it stay for as long as it could, only being replaced prior to the next onset of seasons and the Long Night’s pending approach? He furrowed his brow and gave it another look, piercing eyes glancing over the splintered pillars, posts, and supports, before turning back to his sled. The object had survived the Long Night too, left at his own home and to its own devices. No monster had found it worthwhile apparently, but the warrior believed it worthwhile and useful, bringing it along over the disappearing snow, and he could always drag it over rock and rubble later. He grabbed hold of a pair of gloves, pulling them over his broad hands, and then returned the favor of the Spark Bird’s arrival – grabbing hold of the nearest curled, decimated object and placing it in the sled to be taken care of later. As he advanced upon still smoldering grass, he stomped on it with his boots, ensuring the little flames lost their air, their oxygen, and the plants could start anew. master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Lily