[KQ] i wanna give you back the open sky

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It unraveled further – the chaos and bedlam shirking and careening down around him: Vai’s yell echoed in rancorous waves (how could he just leave them? Leave her?), and she committed to her actions, the last gust of air flailing around him until she and it were no more. Then there was just smoke, embers of old fire, and insects droning in his ears. Alone. He was alone. It should’ve been a comfortable, familiar feeling. But in here, it was hollow and empty, a void, a sickness, a promise of death scratching its knife down his spine. While the rest sang and promised their convictions, he debated his choices. He had no intention of abandoning – it felt cowardly, it felt unjust, it didn’t feel right; the Reaper had come at Amalia’s request, utilized his enchantments, strived to ensure they were safe while they dragged their tulmhainar out of this disastrous wake. But now the poison seeped into his lungs and his eyes, and now he was on his lonesome, strength waning, magic strained, over-exerted, enough, enough, enough coiling into his pulse. Am I going to die here? a consistent inquiry that layered itself back over again and again; circling, shrouding, but granting him no semblance of comfort. Amalia’s voice rang through the venom and vitriol, and he listened, grateful she was still within, her commands a sudden respite in the gloom and Stygian force of his incoming demise. Go to the Shrine – call for Safrin heralded and beckoned, and his brows furrowed as he swatted at insects. Didn’t she know that was a lost cause? That he was Abandoned, and the gods would never listen to him? Or was this just one more way she intended to save him? He clenched his jaw, and the dimming, crimson staff, nodding at his pursuits, loathing, detesting, abhorring the position he’d been placed within. “I will!” He shouted over the songs, over the flickering memories, pledging a promise as he turned back the way they’d come, sprinting back into the light, for a chance at another failure. -- Deimos out! master of nothing place; of recoil and grace