Shoot the Messenger

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

A sense of unease had begun to prickle over his shoulders – caustic and overbearing, some sentiment of an ill omen he couldn’t explain. He’d wandered down narrow streets and familiar avenues, winding his way back and forth like a pacing predator, a study in speculation and the unknown, constantly bombarded by the semblance of something missing. It was off-putting and apprehensive, a curling, twisting knot in his chest, and as he scoured the landscape, the scenery remained unchanged, but lacking fundamental cores. It left a lingering chill, a foreboding wake, and he growled, continued on, head raised and piercing eyes struggling to catch hold of the demons floating in their ether, the snatching claws, the raking consternation he couldn’t explain. The Reaper’s movements and motions ceased long enough on their savage anthem and steps to read the Notice Board, glancing over new and old parchments pinned to the columns. A few caught his eye, exploring the woods with caution via the Loreseeker’s advice, and the memory of his and Kiada’s sojourn into the nestled branches, ferns, and nettles was enough to rattle his cage once more, raising brows as he continued to peruse. There was once more, crisp and fresh, that sent him more on edge, a fervent little agony beginning to toy and play with his nuances: several explorers have already been ambushed and gone missing. The rest was scanned and committed to memory, but the haunting, poignant decibels of the former lit a frenzy, a fire, a kindling, incensed multitude in his membrane; dreadful and seditious. His eyes slid over to the author, nestled nearby. Deimos hadn’t noted him when he’d first arrived, driven entirely to distraction by the disquiet slowly clambering in his soul: but Jigano was different, here and now, the brightness gone from the days of the festival, a haggardness touching on the fringes of the Loreseeker. He should've known then - but the curiosity, the nagging, spiraling inquisition scraped along his fringes and deepened his demands. The unknown glared and gaped at him, threatened to swallow him whole in his ignorance, in his ineptitude, in the secrets lurking beneath the voids and folds. “Jigano,” he called from his stance at the board, taut and rigid, awaiting a certain, sinking finality, head gesturing to the note. “What is going on?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate