[KQ] i wanna give you back the open sky

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The unknown twisted and turned, gaped and clawed; a churning of the wind enveloped the yellow leaves, sprung against eyes and noses and mouths. The covering was only going to last so long – it burned down his throat already, a mere glimpse of noxious, poisonous fumes. He reeled away from the plants, learning naught but their enmity, eyeing everyone else’s whereabouts, the funneling of frustration and desperation chiseling its way into the sanction. They wouldn’t last like this, scraping and searching until there was nothing left but their warped bodies and bleached bones. He stepped closer to Amalia and the mossy hill, where she kneeled (and knowing her, likely prayed). He didn’t honor any deities, he didn’t beg or plead for their generosities: fostering his own in the palm of his hands. There’d been toxic gas along battlefields before, and he thought back to the days where they’d utilized some form of protection: he tried to recreate them now, in a gilded glow, forming masks with charcoal laced inside, activated to protect, filters along the snouts, striving to scrape away any spores, any miasma – reminding him of the moss, of the mud, already collected over their faces. They were woven together with fabric, rudimentary, but hopefully efficient, and the Reaper offered one to each, before shoving it over the Fae’s mask, over the cloth already gathered at his nape, pondering if it would be enough. Then his intentions riveted to the grassy knoll, to the space lingering beneath fingertips, reaching into his satchel and unveiling the tools he’d brought – some could easily be utilized for scraping into the earth, along the edges, hoping to salvage something from the wreckage. He laid them out for anyone who wanted to partake, then flicked his gaze to Amalia, to anyone nearby. “Should we dig?” -- Deimos moves away from the plants and creates some rudimentary gas masks for anyone who wants one. He also takes some digging tools of his bag, proffering those as well, and offers to help dig into the hill. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace