[seasonal event] should have seen this coming

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Another festival; this world already had more festivals in a year than his homeland had ever bothered to embrace (though, it might’ve been because Isilme had far less to celebrate; parades and fanfare came from conquests, not idle, broken defeats). His chest and shoulders lightened only very briefly, since he’d rather enjoyed the latest round of parties, dances, and gatherings (friends and other things found nestled in the restoration of light, but he wouldn’t be able to repeat it if he couldn’t get to them). “Interesting,” he mused, and it wasn’t a lie; his mind became slightly more pre-occupied by these other nuances and notions than carving the forest apart – building bridges with forest folk, with the Fae who’d snagged and whittled at his companions. It led to more queries and inquisitions, and despite his stillness, his frozen composure, the smallest of smiles thawed on the edge of his mouth. “What sort of gifts do they consider worthy?” What would endear a branch of individuals and company they barely knew anything about, that was far older, christened from the earth, than them? Or would it even matter in the end – a host of gestures and tokens given, and to what end? Was there any common ground to be snagged and ensnared, or had they all already overstepped their boundaries, stemmed from curiosity, the fortune suddenly not favoring the bold? the last of a line of lasts