we're all killers
Oh, there was always something to fight, to resist, even if neither of them could see it, could feel it. That’d what he’d been built, constructed, and crafted from – rebellion, sedition, the spread of insurrection in his fingers, in his skin, in his flesh, in his bones, torn from the pieces of peace he’d long since left behind. If it wasn’t Zariah, it was the blight, and if it wasn’t the blight, then it was some forthcoming omen on the horizon, drifting in along the shadows, on the curtails of ending seasons, of the pressing schism and catalyst of Long Night. It had been like Helovia, pockets of repose scattered amidst their own consecrated invasions and hatred; the abhorrence strewn about different characters and acts now, but the notions still the same. Because they were mountains, because they were wolves, because they were glaciers and rime and ice, smoke and fire and plumes, they’d dig their heels in and conquer or come completely undone; but fight just the same. It had been like Isilme, contempt and wrath seething beneath pinnacles of grace and formidable foes, glory-seeking ether choking the life out of its inhabitants, crawling shadows immersed and desperate to tear something apart with their bare hands. Because they were rapacious and deadly, because they were strong, because they were enduring, they’d remain, they’d persist, they’d persevere, walking through ashes, dust, and stone.
They’d sink into those brief moments of solitude, but never expect it to last.
“Yes,” he agreed, rising from his chair only to refill his drink, proffering to do the same to hers (even if it no longer had a taste, even if it no longer held any power or condition). A small smile bent its way along his mouth again, memories of times when she could form alliances beneath other castles’ noses and he could declare war on their houses with a bellowing cry, and they could march into voids and abysses with naught on their back but vitriol and belligerence. “Just like the old days,” he echoed, returning, settling with his spine to the flames, with the whispers of the past becoming a muted roar. “But, hopefully, some of the history does not repeat.” He grimaced, nearly wrinkled his nose, very boyish and young in the movement, recalling several failures along the way – losing the Edge as a soldier, careening along the Steppe as a refugee, taking, taking, taking what he could, what they could, to survive. Failure had always been inevitable, in some capacity, in some form, and they’d had their share – mistakes, mistakes, mistakes.
They’d sink into those brief moments of solitude, but never expect it to last.
“Yes,” he agreed, rising from his chair only to refill his drink, proffering to do the same to hers (even if it no longer had a taste, even if it no longer held any power or condition). A small smile bent its way along his mouth again, memories of times when she could form alliances beneath other castles’ noses and he could declare war on their houses with a bellowing cry, and they could march into voids and abysses with naught on their back but vitriol and belligerence. “Just like the old days,” he echoed, returning, settling with his spine to the flames, with the whispers of the past becoming a muted roar. “But, hopefully, some of the history does not repeat.” He grimaced, nearly wrinkled his nose, very boyish and young in the movement, recalling several failures along the way – losing the Edge as a soldier, careening along the Steppe as a refugee, taking, taking, taking what he could, what they could, to survive. Failure had always been inevitable, in some capacity, in some form, and they’d had their share – mistakes, mistakes, mistakes.
DEIMOS
