[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

The musings could at least continue, even if the intonations were brief. He was not apologetic for the way he was, gone muted and quiet so long ago that it was habitual and routine to barely speak a word, for action to take statements’ places, for a sword to thrust through a chest, for a beckoning squall to be unearthed by his deadly invocations. Something they want. What would the Fae need? What would make them willing to come and venture closer, to partake in and amongst the Naturals, the Outlanders, the small, close-knit sanctions of Caido? Would they even yearn to – if not for curiosity’s sakes? And what made their own residents believe they should, would, or could? There were too many strings attached, bound and sectioned off – his brows furrowed, fingers grasping back at the woodwork of his basket as he thought, catching on the snowflake emblem, on days so long ago and fraught with peril. “They likely have their own magic.” How else would they be able to maintain some of these structures? The old, arcane, ancient ways? The flutter of the leaves, the twist and turn of boughs? It was likely stored in pure, elemental design, one and whole, united and released, relished and savored, deep in thickets and wood. “Any legends of fey from my world were lined with enchantments and duplicity.” His mother’s stories had been broader hints of mystical veils and unholy shrouds, tricks and deceptions, kindness and ambivalence, a strange, eerie, and ethereal sort of detachment. They observed and absorbed, blended in, and were always one step ahead of their constituents. “Think of the sacrifices - the way they made it as seem as if everyone was going to the slaughter.” So how did one kindle a further curiosity? An entangled boldness? Or were they all snatched and tethered in Delah’s grasp, the warchief presiding, reigning over them? Was there something else holding them back? “Greed is present in every species. How could we combine inquiry and avarice?” What would lure them? What would deter them? And should they even be wanting, yearning, any of it? Was it a recipe for disaster, a looming, forsaken, foreboding weight pressing down on their spines, even now, while they chatted and plotted, planned and meandered? Kiada was still a grand outlier, and he played, snatched at the strings the bard provided. “Much braver than most. Best to watch her temper though.” He smirked, arched a brow, hinted at days where the fire and vitriol had pressed over others, had seared and emboldened, had scarred and riddled (how he’d cheered). Let the world see it he would’ve howled, roared, beat down the rest of the world alongside her. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate