[open seasonal event] Got a light?

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It was like war then – persistence and fortitude because there was nothing else. Perhaps that was why he was accustomed to it so easily, sliding from venture to venture, from nightmare to nightmare, because he’d done it all before, because one act of devastation and annihilation seemed to roll right into another, rituals, patterns, clockwork machinations made by foul gods and their abominations. There had been times where he’d asked the universe to take him straight to the catacombs, a mess of a barbaric being, done with the fight, done with the ruins, unsatisfied with the death marking and scoring his memories. Then he’d been plunged down here, and it’d all unraveled him from the depths of that damned desecration, needling and poking, absconding and devising, until his core, his molding, his statuesque depravity seemed to be taking a new shape entirely. But he can’t leave it all behind – for that was how they survived, learning from the past, biding their time before the next cycle interrupted, breathed chaos, wound them down a different, intermittent path, and in the imminent foreboding, in the ominous upheaval, they all glanced at one another and laughed. They were made of the same things, Deimos and Wessex, thrown and tossed into those warrior roles, into lines of swords and lacerations made in the name of living one more moment, one more day, while their allies suffered, while their comrades crumbled, while the rest of the world kept moving – as if it were nothing. The quiet inquiry surprised him; only on rare occasions was he ever questioned, and rarer still when he gave them an answer not purposefully evaded. But if they were sharing details of soldiers and fighters, then he didn’t mind. “Can one represent many?” He’d lost legions and friends, family and loved ones, more and more and more when the world decided to bring him back from the dead, when they opted upon renewal for a beast who’d never quite earned it. There wouldn’t be enough candles to light for all the names shed, massacred, and shattered. Continuing on the unexpected route, Wessex made a joke about the crown, and he must’ve stared, eyes widening for a fraction of a second, before disappearing back into his evident mirth, the slightest grin still echoing along his mouth. He wouldn’t be the one spilling her secrets, even if they were only marks of blended hues and colors, even if it was light and airy, remarkable all the same. “I will not tell.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace