[open seasonal event] Got a light?

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The scorching of flames would always catch his eye; his father was infamous for his infernos, for lingering blazes that went long into evenings and made them all laugh – at times warm and bright, and in other moments, audacious and overwhelming, intending to send an ominous message. He wasn’t sure what this one was for – bristling against the lingering threads of ignorance again – but he was a moth to their beams and fortitude. As he approached, his thoughts muddled over the possibilities and reasons for its existence; perhaps to signify life? Caido seemed partial to recognizing creation, sentience, and viability, and it wouldn’t be a hard stretch to believe it remained ignited for the sole purpose of remembering souls lost during the Longnight, or that they, those who breathed, those who defied, were still there. Maybe not whole, but steadfast and enduring all the same. Another came to the burning wheel before him, and he arched a brow at her appearance. Wessex, out in the stark, harsh beams of day. He knew her as vicious, as vehement, as stoic and resilient as himself, and had honored that with the kinship and camaraderie of warriors, but not one capable of staying within the thresholds of dawn for very long. The Reaper’s glance lingered on the cloak, understanding its reasoning, its foundation, without inquiring, without delving further into the airs and enigmas Wessex often exuded. Thereafter, he came alongside her, a silent witness to her grabbing hold of candles, lighting them, a fuse, back along the spinning ring. “Wessex,” he proffered, nodding his head, coming to stand nearby, silent as the grave as he raised an arm over her cranium (calculating, a damned Machiavellian scourge when necessary) and placed an extra flower crown along the folds of her hood. It was silly and mischievous, the right tone and air for the bounty of jubilance, and likely the deepest fathoms he’d permit himself to. But it was inclusion too, because he knew, he understood, he comprehended every aspect of what it was like to be on the outside, constantly looking in. He thought he’d lacked any and all ability to push himself into the corridors too, slip by – once, they’d been there, but after loss, loss, and loss, he simply hadn’t bothered. A shell, a vessel, a breathing weapon was easier, manageable. But it was agonizing too. His gaze pierced back upon the wheel, indicating it with another toss of his skull, displaying his ignorance and inquiry all at once. “What is it for?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace