[seasonal event] should have seen this coming

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The roguish indifference and boyish mischief was unfortunately lost on him for time being – in another moment, he might have been just as shameless and wicked as Ianto, nothing to less, everything to gain; instead his unruliness was marked in defiance, coiled along insubordination, a ticking bomb waiting to for the right moment to sizzle, already entirely kindled and incensed. He breathed, inhaled, exhaled, strived to find a balance between listening, scholarly exploits, and not exploding into a rush of rash, chaotic, bedlam exultations; taut and rigid, taking in LongHeat traditions when his palms burned and his frame was desperate for action. A bit of fun was not what he had in mind (something thoroughly more relishing and intoxicating, treacherous and not obliging in the slightest, longing to break down doors, walls, and tree limbs, boughs would break and villages would fall). The temper flaring against his tempestuous ramparts wasn’t helping the situation; they were out there, and he was here, locked into discussing sunshine, baskets, and capturing the sun. How was weaving a basket meant to help him or any of those trapped and locked in the unknown? Or were these further mysteries he was meant to unlock, supposedly intending to help him once he crossed his way through valley and blood? He struggled imagining the depths of the sun shining into someone’s woven reeds; but he stilled, striving for something amidst the upheaval. “And what happens after?” After the beams of light have been serenaded into snares? After Safrin of the stars has been entertained? After gifts are extended? the last of a line of lasts