[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

At last Deimos’ notions seemed to herald an agreeable refrain from the bard, and he eased a lingering sigh of relief, inaudible, tucked away and billowing from the sanction of his chest. But then the if you call the meeting simmered and thorned its way into his mind, and all he could recall were days of absolute horror and torture – standing before his own masses, listening to the vitriol, the animosity, the hostility amidst and amongst his kingdom. Everyone’s thoughts and feelings were necessary, some even noteworthy contributions, but it’d also left stinging nettles to grind within, where there’d been war along comrades and brethren, where there’d been upheaval and unraveling chords simply by naming someone to a specific rank. Once had been enough, but it happened over and over and over again, strong, enduring personalities clashing with impulsive, smoldering foes, so much so that dread was the only thing he could associate with congregations and assemblies now; waiting for the next blow, the next onslaught, the next sensation of tyranny and rebellion. He’d somewhat managed to calm and tug them from oblivion and ledges, but the mere notion of it happening again was enough to make his skin crawl, his spine shudder. “I am not gifted in discussion,” which could’ve been the understatement of the season – he even said it with a tiny wisp of a smile, fully aware – his preference was in the shadows, listening, examining, scrutinizing, and offering his experiences. However, now - now he may not have had a choice; the prosperity of one idea inciting and kindling into another. “But I can try.” The apprehension clustered and cluttered in his chest again, one more searing flame to adhere and brood upon. He laughed at the insinuation of gods’ motivations – he’d never understand them either, Abandoned, ignored, isolated from the wake of their consternations. “I would not know,” he replied to the rhetorical, a shrug, despite wanting to know; most likely because his friends had been exposed to it. He’d gone to shrines before, pleading and begging, on his hands and knees for the rain, for the woman, and then again, again for information, even though he’d known it was fruitless, and once more when they’d all been caught. There’d been naught. Discourse warped back to Delah, to those days where he would’ve committed the very same actions, defensive and hostile, brandishing teeth and claws, fangs and insurrection, the moment anyone stepped foot into his world – his kingdom, his people, his allies, his comrades, even when they wanted nothing to do with him. He’d been a suit of armor, a protective cloak and dagger, a sinuous, serpentine blend of machine, machination, and menace – daring the world to take him on. “Trading seems safe, for now. But what will happen when more and more become curious? It will not end there, not for some.” Maybe the meeting would have to happen sooner rather than later; he wouldn’t be able to drag his feet, scatter rocks and recall trepidation. When they arrived back within the Hollowed Grounds, they’d have to strike, spread wisdom and sagacity, gather what anyone else knew or comprehended. Others might have better notions and nuances, semblances and senses not so compromised. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate