you aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
In the this evening’s dusk, he represented bulwarks and barricades, an opposing, dangerous force against those who’d dared to amass themselves against them – except now it’s been mostly friends or the unfamiliar, twitches of blight induced adversaries. But he was a still towering preamble of menace and mayhem in the dying, fading light, in the ghostly hues and pale vitriol of winter, wishing he could immerse himself into the cold and rejoice in its rampant chill, instead of ignite his senses to every noise, to every motion, uncertain if it was another haunted individual come to prey upon flowers and thorns.
He’d tucked his sole remaining rose in his jacket and furs, protection for an innocent figure too – his gaze dropping along to Rexanna, more similar now as they wandered down Greatwood paths, as he delved into conversation (the series of bizarre circumstances continued down their weird slopes and angles, everything so foolishly wrong). In between the flames, he mustered a low whisper, partially amused, partially observant, eyes scanning beyond lights and musings. “We have much to catch up on again.” The smirk relied on shadows, a cloaking of his furtive measures, as they lingered beneath the Mathair, calculating where he’d place the rose, kneeling down amongst its larger roots, pondering if he should sequester it under the mass of twisted fortifications, if others were less likely to sink their claws into the foundations.
He’d tucked his sole remaining rose in his jacket and furs, protection for an innocent figure too – his gaze dropping along to Rexanna, more similar now as they wandered down Greatwood paths, as he delved into conversation (the series of bizarre circumstances continued down their weird slopes and angles, everything so foolishly wrong). In between the flames, he mustered a low whisper, partially amused, partially observant, eyes scanning beyond lights and musings. “We have much to catch up on again.” The smirk relied on shadows, a cloaking of his furtive measures, as they lingered beneath the Mathair, calculating where he’d place the rose, kneeling down amongst its larger roots, pondering if he should sequester it under the mass of twisted fortifications, if others were less likely to sink their claws into the foundations.
but you're terrified of
letting anyone in
letting anyone in
DEIMOS
