[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 appeared to give up on the current Amalia chase, shifting the game again, granting Deimos some breathing room in the evading tactics, in the amusing diversions. Was the bard required to know everything? Because the Reaper wasn’t about to allow it, keeping sentiments reserved for her and her alone tucked right along his chest, in the walls and vessels of his heart, persistent in his seditious ichor. They weren’t for Jigano’s ears, mind, or inquiries; and no matter how much he pressed, how much he craved and hankered the information, the warrior would duck between the ramparts, certain, and assured. He was a stronghold, a vault, a fortress – stone and marble, rock and demolition, annihilation and abhorrence. Do your worst he nearly howled, but had no need to, the subjects shifting and switching, back and forth; the challenge simmering and smoldering in the cracks and crags of his solemn surface. “Indeed,” he motioned at first, the impish, youthful, boyish intricacies allowed, permitted, to play along his face: a provocation to venture deeper and deeper into the forest that threatened to drown them. It was foolish, of course, he would acknowledge the notion firsthand (they were barely tolerated as it was), but to know and understand the new patterns and pathways of the world before them was enticing, tempting, and given the opportunity, he would have carved and sculpted his way through every bough, avenue, street, and canopy, sinking into the earth, peeling back the layers, deriving answers from mysteries. Except – they weren’t wanted; abhorred instead, treated with derision and disdain. It was an interesting obstacle to overcome: he’d managed to meander around contempt for his soul many, many times, but not entire kingdoms, not entire sovereigns, everyone combined with the intention of keeping them far, far away. His eyes narrowed briefly, flattening his brows, the mischief gone for the moment, away from the ground and scenery, considering Jigano’s claim. “Exterminating could be an option. It is interesting that they are not open to trade.” He pondered, calculating again. “What else would they consider? Ianto claimed we should participate in their festivals. Show we are willing to make connections.” It wouldn’t matter if the opposing side didn’t want them anywhere near. He lifted his eyes back up to the clouds and horizon when the topic meandered its way to Kiada: fire and ash, blood and fury, an ambience, ally, and friend he favored simply because she didn’t care what others thought, boldly daring to step into the inferno, the flames, with little hesitation. “I met her again this past winter,” he nodded, recalling the first intonations, but not giving any semblance of information on the way she’d broken him down – the memories he thought not his own, the images, the pictures, the cool embrace of the mountains soaring against an aurora sky – cast and pierced and punctured by her invocations. The reality of loss, over and over again, had been blinding, shocking, and traumatizing, re-opened wounds he wasn’t going to let flay and lay unstitched out here (not again). I knew a Deimos once, she’d persisted, knowing, knowing, knowing, while he stood there, stupefied and indignant, resistant because some part of him had already bent and cracked. He was a good man, a great leader. He’d scoffed. We called him The Reaper. He’d wanted to run; easier, to evade, to escape, to not be trapped in the confines of those cliffs again, into the monster he’d been. But she hadn’t let him. “I was hunting, and she descended in the field as an eagle.” An affectionate smile wore its way into the corners of his mouth, then naught else – awaiting the next set of inquiries. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate