Deimos
Sometimes it was still difficult to parse through the wickedness of LongNight’s drawn claws, even years away from the threshold of its bite and menace. But these moments in the present, scaled and turned towards the light, made more bearable memories; traces of repose to fill in the shambles and nightmares.
They’d long since constructed some blanket fortification in the middle of the living room, in front of the great fire so that each angle corresponded to embers rather than shadows. Wide and tall enough for him to sit within without bending over, tall and imposing in its stature so that Belial had long since found a corner to claim, and Zuriel snorted indignantly from outside, bothered that they’d taken over her favorite spot. But it’d be worth the unicorn’s ire to laugh in fondness and tranquility, rather than ever broaden the horizon of monsters and mayhem again.
He leaned against one portion of the couch from underneath the starry-draped awning, one knee drawn upwards, palms surrounding the overly large mug of hot chocolate, the steam making its own curls and cues. Half-inclined to start some mischief, agitate, provoke, and incite, the Sword’s gaze purposefully flickered back and forth from his cup to Evie’s, before announcing some juvenile correspondence in his habitual rumble. “I think you have more marshmallows.”
They’d long since constructed some blanket fortification in the middle of the living room, in front of the great fire so that each angle corresponded to embers rather than shadows. Wide and tall enough for him to sit within without bending over, tall and imposing in its stature so that Belial had long since found a corner to claim, and Zuriel snorted indignantly from outside, bothered that they’d taken over her favorite spot. But it’d be worth the unicorn’s ire to laugh in fondness and tranquility, rather than ever broaden the horizon of monsters and mayhem again.
He leaned against one portion of the couch from underneath the starry-draped awning, one knee drawn upwards, palms surrounding the overly large mug of hot chocolate, the steam making its own curls and cues. Half-inclined to start some mischief, agitate, provoke, and incite, the Sword’s gaze purposefully flickered back and forth from his cup to Evie’s, before announcing some juvenile correspondence in his habitual rumble. “I think you have more marshmallows.”
it's not the waking, it's the rising
It's the fire it ignites
It's the fire it ignites
