[DROP] dance of the naiad

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The will-o-wisps called again, ushering their haunting lights, bordering on the Outskirts, a wail, a bellow, a hymn, unsaid and unsung in the rush of luminescence. He’d been led before, time and time again, lured when he thought he was strong and enduring, beguiled when he thought himself incapable of temptation, enticed when he’d once been so utterly indifferent. There was a balking mechanism to his lifted head, to the curiosity, to the memories shifting in his mind; because he could recall unearthly, ethereal stirs of another world at their hastening, and a woman laden with fire in another, criss-crossing and aligning themselves on the meticulous tethers. Resistance played a part, and he’d always been capable of tossing defiance and ensuing sedition, a bold, favored rebellion in the heart and lungs of cruel manifestations, swinging an ax, a sword, a hammer, into the chests of men; but here and now, the inquiry, the iniquity filled him again. What now? were the series, were the cycles, and like a ghost, like a phantom, like a wraith, the buoyant radiance scattered their beams and bulbs, hastening a follow me requiem. He did. But not without his weapons, his knives, his daggers, hastened and clustered to his belt, not without his motivation, his fire and fury, his menace and audacity, his insurrection and upheaval. He maneuvered, wandered, a Reaper on the move, down into parts of the Fae world he’d yet to visit – eyes fastening first to the structures built on stilts, above and beyond the wild water, then to the river itself, free and unburdened. He saw the Fae, watching, waiting, as if called and summoned, and then he pondered about sacrifices again, looked for Amalia, for Kiada, for the rush of blood to not go pulsing and pervading through his machinations, his mind, his Mephistophelean regard without some sort of warning or omen. But everything was quiet and still; his breaths sharpened, gaze swinging to those he recognized, all lingering too – Ronin, Samuel, and countless others, brought and shepherded here. Why? He composed himself too, along the embankments, looking out over the tides, eyes narrowed, suspicious. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace