[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 and Amalia’s relationship was an intriguing set of roots and foundations; expressed through knowledge first, then inquiries, books, circling and rotating, finding similar paths and routes, avenues to meander, wander, or give into trial and tribulation. It was not entirely disparate from the Reaper and the baker’s stories, but where the bard might have revolved around her intrigues and exploits, the warrior intertwined, breathing and blending their airs of mischief, their acceptance, their mutual amusements, their extended beneficence. He gave and she took, then she proffered and he snagged, and together they played off of one another’s strengths and parallels; he thawed and emerged from the eroding plains, ruins, and rubble, and she gave a more emboldened touch, a quiet, beatific conviction. She’d always be more stalwart, more forgiving, more compassionate than himself, but he’d lend her anything he could – unspoken, unsaid, but there in his movements, in his motions, in the way he always leaned in towards the sun, the moon, the stars in her horizon. But he didn’t tell Jigano any of these things, allowed the echo of the Lorekeeper’s words to reverberate and wane; uncertain if its baited, a lure, a snare, to intrigue and investigate further, and it’s among those things he won’t permit a touch, a trace, for him and her, and no one else. He did offer the slightest reaction, a lifting of his brows, as if amused by the subject, but muted to its precious entities, even more entertained and diverted by the nature of evasion, how many times he could simply not give Jigano the answers he sought. It was another hushed rebellion, a slight of hand in his insurrection, capable of being as silent as the grave when truly instigated, intending to carve his way into the silly game. It was childish and impudent, but who he was, underneath the claws, the talons, the swords, the knives, the daggers, and the melancholy. He shifted a little on his stump, toying with the ends of his basket, running his thumb over a knot in the wood, listening as the subject meandered its way towards the gourds. He could glance and slide his way into this murk and mire, not feeling a pulse, a strain, a gathering of something his. “I had never seen anything like them either.” There’d been an assortment of other odd assemblages in Helovia and Isilme, but snapping little vampire pumpkins hadn’t had any comparable ilk; he’d enjoyed kicking them across the streets regardless, the miniscule slate of violence required in rescuing Rory from their fangs and growls. “We will likely find out eventually,” he surmised, eyes lifting briefly to the lush canopies and darkened undergrowth nearby. “Or something else does.” There was no inclination to what could be lurking in those depths and fathoms, another mystery, another inquiry, another moment of enigmas bound and wound; and given their sanctimonious plunge into its forest, there would only be more interludes and cataclysms to follow. Something would come to a head. At the last question though, Deimos sensed a divergence; straightening, gaze regarding the bard fully. What would cause such a inquiry, other than mild curiosity? He considered, nearly smirked at the intonations and phrasing curled, coiled, contorted in his mind, but let them go, didn’t release them into the ether, intending to utilize them at a later interval – if they became necessary, vital, or appealing. Did he consider Rory a friend? The man had accepted and tolerated him after a fervent liberation, and then cast them all aside in the middle of the riot at the Spire – spit and fumed, rattled and clambered, screamed and railed on the Outlanders, on the causes, on the complaints. Then he’d apologized at the festival – so perhaps they were back on decent terms? The warrior shrugged, presuming they were allies and comrades in some way. “Yes.” And what about you? hovered on his tongue, a bit wicked, but sat there still, settling behind his teeth. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate