[PQ] Long may you run

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts 3 So it was the same old song, the same old lines, the same old stanzas – Outlanders and Naturals alike not wanted beneath the shroud and boughs of their leaves. He wondered if there would be a revolution after this, an ill-timed mob with their hostile mentality launching at them because the world dared to peek into their threshold, to explore the boundaries of a world they barely knew. They threatened change, and gods, he could understand the aspects of the rubble and ruin requiring alteration to survive, resisting the futile march of morphing and assimilating coming to press down over shoulders and scalps. This realm had already resculpted and reshaped his form, whittled away the more anguished, tortured, tormented bits and pieces, strung him together on a steadfast, streamlined approach: Deimos still within, the Reaper through and through (because the Fae would know his ruthlessness if they insisted upon it, because they’d see a force, a shape and glimmer of oblivion), but with emptied contortions being filled in, the hollowed becoming hallowed. “Change is inevitable.” It erupted from his throat, distinguished by the deep rumble – if it wasn’t them, it’d be someone else floating and wafting their way through the woods, chasing down incorporeal forms and bounding out – but eventually someone would stay, something would stick. The notion was not said unkindly, but a mere extension of fact; that kingdoms rose and fall, that challenges were faced amidst calamity and repose. Jigano had continued along the same lines, pondered over the foretold modifications and adaptations, and Deimos wondered how strictly this kingdom would try and maintain its status quo, refusing to respond to the passing of time, rearing their heads and baring their teeth while the void came for them all. Even amidst the peril and the plight, the vaguest notion sprung in his cranium, curled and coiled its curiosity, the piercing slate of his eyes pinpointed on the sprigs of red, blood in the forest. “What do you wish for then?” An echo of a line he'd recited amidst a growing mob, pandemonium amidst the spire. the last of a line of lasts