[open seasonal event] Got a light?

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame This was the most he’d ever heard Wessex discuss herself, and like a rapt, eager pupil, a fervent scholar, he simply listened. He digested the words and phrases, the depths of Ascension, the time before transformations. His eyes roamed while his mind coiled, staring at the depths of the flames that represented aspects of life, and the banishing of darkness; pondering if that was ever truly possible, if the reaches of nefarious whims and sinister omens truly left, vanquished away from iniquitous souls. Or was it mere happenstance – the glowing bastions of light and fire, like the Spark Bird screeching and bellowing the shadows, the demons, off until the next bout? Was this a sanctuary, a threshold of liberation and deliverance, after a long, aching void filled with truths and lies and ruses, the vile schemes, the caustic pandemonium? Was he supposed to dive into it too, revel in the release, the freedom, the emancipation, or wait until the next interval of grief and delusion? How do you stand it? He yearned to ask. How do you endure LongNight after LongNight? He watched and waited, gaze settling on candles extinguishing, going out, reaching forward to take one and ignite its fellows, its brethren. He had too many to remember; his hands would be full of burnt-out candles and dripping wax, a cluster of names on his tongue, on his mouth, woven into the Stygian empire when he thought he knew everything about anguish and loss, before more than just lacerations stabbed him in the gut. “Thank you for telling me,” he managed to say, after standing there amidst the glowing wheel and not knowing what else to do, what else to proffer. The warrior was fully aware of his astounding ignorance of this world – and how the Naturals kept providing him and so many of his ilk with information; they didn’t need to, not after the barbarity, not after the miscalculations, the sparks, the sizzling, atop the Spire’s wrath. He didn’t have anything else to offer her though – naught she already knew and had. It was an empty and hollow feeling, staring at the fire, the flames, and not containing anything worthwhile. She did accept the flowering circlet though, settling over her hood, bright and cheery against gray and arcane; he tilted his head to regard it further, the cheeky ether of his smile sizzling back to life, the mischief unrolling, hovering there, waiting to see if it was okay to proceed, or if it should be shuttered away, to return when the world was ready. “Of course.” He laughed, not at Wessex, but at the way the earth chilled, recoiled, and surged again, onward and onward. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace