[seasonal event] fell to the top

D e i m o s

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

He waited for some anvil to fall or strike him down, consider him irreverent and hostile again, form the spewing masses and flames sent to cast him ablaze. The memories came and went sometimes in the intervals of his slumber; a tenacious, clambering opus of his malignant flaws coming to render him to cinders – reliving every nuance of his words, of his phrases, of how he couldn’t piece together the right diatribes or inflections, of how he was always a little too late in the crossfire, of how his actions spoke far louder than his words ever could. The Reaper was usually his own worst nightmare, a fool amidst fools, desperate to convey what lay beyond those walls, but incapable of doing so without wrecking and obliterating his carefully orchestrated line of defenses. So often times the conversations never happened, and he let his soul get buried under the folly, let the realms misconstrue, let the kingdoms lay waste, on top of his mountain, alone and ridiculous and inept in everything but warfare and machinations. Neither of the latter ever kept him from falling apart, not in death, not in life reborn. But as damned and grim as he was, the beast always tried. Deimos nodded in agreement with the first statement, but didn’t know what else to say. There was always the conundrum, the next step, the hollowed bits of his vices he could never quite overcome. Was he sorry for the way he’d acted? It’d be a lie; the cold, conniving edges of his past had come crawling right back over his senses, but there’d been resolution and determination in the savage, sinister outlooks, and they’d persisted, even after everything chiseled and sculpted its way into nothing. It was a learning curve, to not instantly brew into calculations and Machiavellian tendencies; it was how he’d survived for so long, born again beneath the hostilities and melees. Maybe it was just have to come with time, and they’d let bygones be bygones, stupidity inflected in too much curiosity and boldness. So instead of producing falsehoods and pretenses, his figure remained tense and drawn, but still somewhat obliging, head tilted to listen as he surveyed the world around them. Where I can; always somewhat about the bard, rather than friends and companions as a whole, the Guild, the others sure to follow, sure to keen, sure to not yield either. He tucked this observation away, but responded in kind, watching the fast pace of the market breeze by. “How do you propose we kindle these alliances?” The once King could understand strategies, could play into those games and ruses. Another loomed nearby though; cautious but optimistic, suddenly imploring them to glance at his wares – inquiry loomed as dangerously as the emboldened entanglements wrapped around the Reaper’s frame, causing him to step forward, wondering over the fabled reeds and their finely woven threads. Had these been the baskets to capture the sun, as Ianto had mentioned? Were these their customs? He was forced to ponder the length of the tales and stories he’d been told, because he was always an Outlander, plucked and taken and shoved against. But he’d oblige, especially since there were a few other things he thought to acquire; might as well learn how they bartered along the threshold. If it was anything like Jiao’s tastes, he could stand a chance. “Depends on what you prefer.” The creation magic curling in his veins flared and ensued – but he wasn’t about to manifest something without an idea, a notion, of what was craved or desired. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate