[seasonal event] should have seen this coming

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The detailed list of gifts was adequate and gave him enough to work with: what to bring was another matter entirely. How much of a story did he want to exploit, lend into the atmosphere? He was fortified and walled off, carefully composed and constructed so very few wanted or managed to climb over the ramparts; the ones who had were trusted, respected, and beloved. Perhaps he could entertain and cajole with other venues and myths, legends and fables not linked to him – back into either worlds that had baptized him in blood, fury, and regret: gods who failed, who maimed, who desecrated, but also manifested, emboldened, and sent them home. At the very least, if he couldn’t come up with anything, he could always hunt or create something from his bare hands. It settled him, rooted him to the ground, a distinction, an idea, a notion, past the hatred and vitriol, the curling, coiling, clawing animosity contorting its way into his membrane; softer, lighter, without the pulsing, maddening edges. He nodded in respect to Ianto – who didn’t have to tell him anything at all – attempting to convey the notions and sentiments of connections to a beast who rarely grasped any at all (who fought for them, who strived for them, who died for them). “It does. Thank you. I will try my best.” the last of a line of lasts