[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

Acceptance and tolerance glimpsed along the surroundings again – proffered by the Reaper and then extended by the bard, a standoff thwarted, hanging between panels of the unknown and bridges they’d yet to cross. He sighed again, partially out of relief, containing the bits and pieces of apprehension stored in his lungs, in his soul, from those days when he simply hadn’t been enough, when he’d made his own sepulcher of isolation and ruin, when he’d dug his own grave, when he’d finessed desolation and loneliness to an art. A masterpiece of the wicked and the crimes that followed; chiseled right down to the bare bones and inflections of the sinister, the savage, the sinful, the depraved, striving for the rest of the world to not come sinking down around him. Now – now he didn’t know what he was, caught in the crossfire of old and new, blending back time and time again to what once was and hopefully never again, but the ice pressed into his veins and caught him in those weakened moments. He looked beyond those glacial, mountainous walls now, over the turrets and towers, along the ramparts, gazing headlong at Jigano as he offered what he could. Deimos didn’t give voice to the consternations lingering around his thoughts; that Amalia would follow Jigano into danger, that Jigano would do the same, and they’d spiral around disastrous intonations and actions for a lifetime. It would be hypocritical to even condemn them – because he’d do the same damned thing, rush headlong into curiosity and iniquity given half the chance and enough time to calculate, devastate, the desired outcome. He didn’t want her in harm’s way, but it seemed they’d clash into those wraiths, ghosts, catacombs, and phantoms when the moments came and struck – they would all simply have to make do together, clamber around with nooses around their necks and sanctums, sanctuaries, in their claws. It was in-tune with the character of the baker to simply not hold grudges or place fault, blame, on anyone or anything; and he chuckled, laughed, lightly at the image, at the picture, of her ever truly align disapproval or vilification on anyone. “Then I will reserve my judgment.” He arched a brow, the slide of devil-may-care predilections caught on his features, venturing into further deflections and asides, when the opportunity presented itself. “How did you come to meet her?” It was genuine curiosity and intrigue, the backstory behind tales of triumph and tribulations, piercing depths broadening away from the ground, the earth, the soil, and along the panels of forest, waiting, listening, and eluding. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate