D E I M O S
Still entranced by the festival’s hum and levity, the Reaper pushed through crowds and gatherings, stare darting back and forth for nothing in particular. He bordered on nomadic, wandering from place to place, catching wares for sale, entertainment whistling and calling over the throngs, everything bewitching and beholden, light instead of darkness, uncertain of where he should tread. Habit dictated the shadows, etched the edge of the horde, mass, and multitude, lapses of freedom, liberation, but desolation too. For once, he didn’t covet it, embraced by acceptance and tolerance for his presence within the fold, neither shunned, shoved aside, or drawn into the eclipsing abyss. It was different, it was unfamiliar, strange, and somewhat discomforting, but in the same stead, a welcome breath of fresh air. His lungs craved it. His heart beat more than stiletto rhythms to knives and daggers, to swords and mettle, to infernal glory and contemptuous actions.
He roamed, steps less savage and sinister, sculpted and molded for maneuvering purposes without the ominous, foreboding weight of a demon incoming; distracted ultimately by a diversion in the air. Light and airy, the vision bounded and leapt into his vision quickly and efficiently, popping on the end of his nose before he could do anything about it. The warrior snorted at the action - bubbles - recalling the days of absolute youth and wonderment over layers of soap suddenly laden into the sky. A glance told him several children were concocting these wayward pockets, more – some tiny, some massive – streamlined with sweeps of their hand, tiny little tools forcing the froth to become free, zipping between the rest of the festival participants. Their merriment was contagious, infectious bouts of laughter ricocheting off of buildings and banners, waving flags and easygoing smiles, no worries, no cares, no matter of previous exploits and events a thought on the horizon.
He tilted his head, considering, contemplating, his next set of actions. The boyish semblance of mischief persisting in his chest thought about joining them, extending several waves of their instruments and allowing the bubbles to ascend and do as they pleased; yet another contortion remained firmly entrenched in his ancient, archaic form of countenance, eroding and bestial, merciless and terrible, no time for tricks or games, sedition and upheaval to be spread. So he stood there, admiring their work on the cobblestones, shelving a few chuckles, and popping the ones that came closest to him.
