[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

Jigano turned his bait to the market dwellers now, and Deimos loosened some of the rigid, unyielding contortions to his shoulders, to his movements, freedom and liberation, while the bard praised his craftmanship. Maybe it was another scheme meant to ensure the warrior’s guard was laid lower, easier, more flexible, a piece of the wall crumbling and eroding; but the Reaper adjusted all the same, no longer under the press and snare of words and worlds regarding Amalia. There were a multitude of things he could convey in essence to her; but he wanted them for her ears, not anyone else’s, in passing, in the wind, on the breeze, or lifting to the ether as everyday nuances and sentiments. She deserved more than that. “Birds could work,” Deimos mused instead, grateful Jigano had altered his course and taken the staged diversion, contemplating items or wares Kiada might have a use for, when everything was said and done, and they were gone from the village, back the way they’d came; out of sight, out of mind, to the Fae for the moment, until another slipped into their place. Maybe some sort of cloth or fabric with her harpy eagle stitched within its contents. Maybe the hilt of a dagger, sculpted in antlers or wings; the feather of a conspiring demon, the scrape of a beak notched into its side. “Or a luxere.” He mentioned offhandedly, thoroughly distracted now, intrigued to not be completely entangled in a newfound weapon or calculated machinations; at ease, not fettering or unfurling at the seams, not angry, not irate, not bestial or barbaric. The bard also dug a little deeper though, and the Reaper wondered just how far he’d strive to venture before the wounds reopened, before the lacerations resurfaced. He furrowed his brow for a second or two, ruminating on how to answer the question, on which fathoms and depths to drown within (the ice, the shackles, the throne along the summit, defiant children endeavoring to make their way through the snowy valleys; audacious and bold, inept Kings with crooked, thorned crowns, lending an ear, a helping hand, because they recognized potential and prowess). “Since she was a child,” the beast proffered, shrugging at Jigano with the hint of a smile (ghosts walled in there too; too many wraiths between the pair of them), for it was true and accurate; but while she’d grown, clambered and sunken her talons into savage, nefarious, and iniquitous chambers, he’d died, clawing his way out of dust, reborn, resurrected, and haunted by the multiple pathways. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate