DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
It would be disappointing, maybe, to fall back into old traditions, when there were new ones to embark upon. While the Sword didn’t display any excitement over the thought of impending festivals, silly, amusing food tangents were a better die to cast, and he shook his head as her hands went outward, copper and sunlight flickering in the humid vestiges. “Or cookies,” he reminded, ignoring the instinctual rumble to his stomach.
Not expecting the compliment over flower crown prestige, his cheeks reddened slightly, stare immediately going elsewhere, as if to remark upon the particular spike of a leaf. That seemed to only encourage the additional application to his hair, and he snorted, bending his head slightly to allow the bloom to settle in amongst long locks, straightening when she was finished. “Is it my color?” came with a wrinkle to his nose, juvenile and boyish glint to his smile, bounding a quick recovery from earlier statements, eyes eventually winding their way back to her at the swamp details. “Plenty of that here,” and he gestured to several of the thicker brambles of ivy, vines, or any stray twigs on the ground – though he’d already begun maneuvering along another section, long limbs carrying him down the path of fruit trees.
Gazing upwards at apple blossoms, Deimos indulged momentarily at the weapon exposition, pressing more mischief rather than expose inquiries, at least for the second. “You may want another one simply for a different range,” because while throwing knives could certainly indulge in distances, there were only so many. Pinpointing one set of petals, he experimented with incantations again, and without touch, turned and altered the singular speck into a green bulb, watching for a few more seconds as it began to change hues, blotched, reddish. Only thereafter did he extend the question that had been settling in, waiting, presenting it with lightness, entangled curiosity, rather than anything else. “Where did you end up?”
Not expecting the compliment over flower crown prestige, his cheeks reddened slightly, stare immediately going elsewhere, as if to remark upon the particular spike of a leaf. That seemed to only encourage the additional application to his hair, and he snorted, bending his head slightly to allow the bloom to settle in amongst long locks, straightening when she was finished. “Is it my color?” came with a wrinkle to his nose, juvenile and boyish glint to his smile, bounding a quick recovery from earlier statements, eyes eventually winding their way back to her at the swamp details. “Plenty of that here,” and he gestured to several of the thicker brambles of ivy, vines, or any stray twigs on the ground – though he’d already begun maneuvering along another section, long limbs carrying him down the path of fruit trees.
Gazing upwards at apple blossoms, Deimos indulged momentarily at the weapon exposition, pressing more mischief rather than expose inquiries, at least for the second. “You may want another one simply for a different range,” because while throwing knives could certainly indulge in distances, there were only so many. Pinpointing one set of petals, he experimented with incantations again, and without touch, turned and altered the singular speck into a green bulb, watching for a few more seconds as it began to change hues, blotched, reddish. Only thereafter did he extend the question that had been settling in, waiting, presenting it with lightness, entangled curiosity, rather than anything else. “Where did you end up?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
