To defy the future cast

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The mountains had always called to him; a herald of snow and ice, a beckoning of the chill instead of flames, instead of embers, instead of the glow of infernos. But he’d forgotten the forest had once appealed to him too – caught and tethered him in its mist, in its fog, in its labyrinthine design, so much so that even now he could hear the wild wails of the sea crashing into its knoll, into its cliffs, and he wondered just where on earth he was supposed to be, if all these elements wrapped themselves around his shell. There was war, there was savagery, there was might and derision within his chest too, breaths of ardent insurrection and cold-blooded nonchalance, the taste of fury, the paradigms of lost, embittered, rancorous hope, and the stark determination of a beast who roared and howled, who defeated and fell, who endured, persevered, then forgot the beatific details of triumph. The thicket was dense, even amidst the crisp sunlight, and he could see traces and outlines of branches, brambles, and thorns in the thickened shadows; a place he might’ve hovered in the midst of impending battle, where he could hide and ambush an adversary, where he could dive from sturdy boughs and plunge his knife, his sword, his cutlass, into their flesh, wreak havoc and let loose infernal war cries. His eyes took in the slightest breeze, raised his head to the air as if he could sniff out those traversing nearby; a fruitless cause, before wandering further down the trodden path. If he were more aware of the sights and sounds of this glen, he would’ve meandered completely off the lane; but this was a scouting mission. Instead of forging on ahead and constructing a home, ensuring he had some shelter, he dove headfirst, heedless and reckless, into the unknown – embracing those siren wails scorching his ears, drumming away in his senses. It went against his more meticulous actions, the calculating ethers, the Machiavellian ruses; but wove back into their counterparts, because if he didn’t understand or comprehend the grounds he now trod upon, then he had no chance of gaining an upper hand, of understanding the world he’d been thrust within. The old kingdom was easy; rampage, ravage, pillage, and plunder, take what one wanted, feast on the weak, the downtrodden, and leave nothing behind. He’d learned – he’d succeeded and then failed, tripped and stumbled and fell straight into the void, into the abyss, and now there was only the murky dawn catching him in its path. The cretin was silent and still for a few moments, stealing the sounds unfurling around him – morning songbirds, the scattering of animals, and when his hand reached out to vegetation, the withering, dying fronds curling and coiling back into his palm. He watched them flicker apart, turn crisp and disheveled along his skin, then closed over their decaying threshold; letting the disintegrated edges descend to the forest floor. It appeared other things had followed him from the great beyond, and he was death again, the Reaper begun anew, an insignificant scythe sent to slaughter once more.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

 

F E L K A

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Despite the new influex of outsiders into the Dome and the revitalization of certain sections of the Ruins and Domiciles, Felka chose to dwell in the woodlands. She slept in the same hovel she had been born in. The same one her Mama had died in. The same one Papa had drunk himself to death in. She couldn't leave it. Even with it's dirt floors and bare hearth, the little hut in the oaks was her home. Felka knew, deep in her bones, that she would die in that shack. Gods knew even her luck was against her on that one. It wasn't just the hovel though. It was the forest itself. It seemed distinct from the rest of the Dome, thriing with an untamed sense of life that felt different even from the relatie agricultural bliss of the oasis. There was more here than docil animals bred for meat, grains, and simple vegetables. There was danger and mystery. Felka loved it. More importantly, she understood it as well as any human could.

Even after a lifetime of wandering beneath its boughs, there was something alien about the woodlands. It was Leafchange, but the air was warm rather than briskly chill and the scented with the fetidly sweet smell of decaying lowers rather than the dryness of autumn leaves. The Dome was unknowable, its seasons as shiftable as a human's heart, and the trees were a reflection of their environment. The forest could never truly be known by anyone. Perhaps, somewhere deep in her most secret heart, Felka knew that.

She would never admit it. Even now she was crouched down beside a path, her knees slowly becoming wet as they pressed into the damp ground. She had found a new specimen, perhaps an entirely new species, of an herb commonly purported to cure headaches. So far as she knew, there was little truth to those claims. Perhaps this new herb, with its new growth tinted purple instead of orange, would be the answer. Felka was no alchemist, but she frequently worked with one that would be glad to test out her hypothesis. A reliable headache cure would be both lucrative for the alchemist and beneficial for the people who struggled to scrape a living out of the Dome's limited resources.

Felka was so invested in cataloging the plant's characteristics, in fact, that she didn't even notice the colussus stomping down the trail until he was almost on top of her. The young woman tried to rise to her feet quickly, smiling non-threateningly as she did so. You never knew what types of people were wandering about these days. Ture to form, she lost her balance and toppled onto her behind in front of the man with an undignified squawk. Well, she had certainly accomplished non-threatening."Hello!" she greeted the man from her position at his feet. If she had waitied until she was upright they might have been there all day.

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The warrior embraced the rich decadence of the wood – even in its dawn haze, the uneasy connotations braced against his breath, and it was familiar, it was haunting, it was poignant. He could drown himself in the wake, in the existence, in the ethers and embers of the forlorn, of the enigmatic, of the wayward, winding trails and the caustic thorns without ever feeling out of place. It could seize and seethe, it could lacquer and layer, it could thwart and contort, coil and rampage, and simmer the same as him. The autumn traces were the signature of death, the sinking process of renewal, of rejuvenation, of a long-lost spring, come back again after Hades’ grasp loosened its grip on winter – he maneuvered and motioned between the symbols, the archaic designs, a silent Colossus gazing into the unearthly runes and ruins. There were portions of him yearning to twist and turn his way into thickets and groves, to stare openly across clifftops, to become lost in the sanction of warrens, mazes, and fog; become adrift with ghosts and phantoms, wraiths and specters, the cobwebbed, addled portions of his mind that chose to brood instead of fight. But the savagery, the nefariousness, the abhorrence and destruction immersed amongst his blood, his veins, his ichor, only instigated him onward, rigid and possessive, scintillating annihilation in stone steps, hollowed, hallowed rapacity in demonic art. There was naught tying him to the land except for his malice, menace, and reserve; a portrait of other worlds blended and carved together – a forgotten beast without a kingdom to claim, wreck, pillage, or defend. Had there been castle walls to guard, to siege, to rampage against, he wouldn’t have been meandering out in the glen, surveying mysteries and distortions – he would’ve been the same callous, indifferent, detached monster, laying waste, an immoral, vicious code sinking into claws and reaching for swords, brandishing bloodshed and diabolical schemes. In the present, in the moment, he was merely consigned, drenched in disfavor; a storm on the horizon, a mercurial chord striking the heavens. A rustle of movement, brush shifting, nettles and needles swinging, caught his attention. His nonchalant gaze widened for an instant as he measured his predictions, as he fought and determined his chances. Without a weapon, he stood little chance against bigger game, like bears, mountain lions, or anything else of bestial ilk, but there was always the opportunity for his hands to dig into their skin, into their fur, into their flesh and sinew, a moment for the sinister incantations to leave his skull and traverse through his blood, to pulse, to weaken, to decay and defile - death is what they wanted - he could whisper, he could howl, he could roar. It’d be like years before, providing the realms, the terrains, the territories with his terror, treachery, ruin, and disaster, bedlam on the rise, fractured disciples flanking his side, war horns and cries sweeping across nations as they fell at their feet. Out of habit, his right hand flexed to his side, reaching for a rapier that wasn’t there, and he nearly cursed himself for the audacity, for the boldness, for the belief he’d be able to conquer anything and everything out here – Except then a wisp of a female tumbled out, onto the trail, offering well-wishes. She might’ve been the least-threatening individual he’d ever seen, leaving a few tell-tale heralds out of his memory, and any pre-conceived notions of ominous, foreboding figures and predators quickly disappeared as soon as she loosened a squawk. His stare widened again and he could’ve sworn he felt the slightest pull of his lips, as if they nearly beckoned a laugh, before he registered his features back into a more formidable posture. His intimidating stature would likely be enough for this venture – she was a willowy, lithe thing, even there, sprawled across the forest floor. A gentleman would’ve offered her a hand, but the beast simply tilted his head, and answered her bellow with gruff tones, gravelly discord. “Hello.” Then, because ever since he’d lived he’d been bent into curiosity and interest, Deimos reached across the abyss. “What are you doing?”

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}
@Felka

The forest might have called to Deimos, but he didn’t call to it. Or perhaps, not in the way he would’ve hoped. The beast he called himself was no match for the powers that drifted silently through the branches and spread like the roots of the trees of this forest. The woodlands were not without their share of mysteries, @felka was right about that. The woodlands might not know who this Machiavelli fellow was or this Hades person, since they was from another world and another time entirely, not suited to this land, but they knew intruders when they felt them treading the forest floor. Even harmless ones like Felka were noticed and noted. Maybe that life that Felka sensed under these eaves had a life of its own, or maybe this was just an old land with quirks and ghosts just like any other. She was right about one thing however, namely that the trees and the woods were in large part and in many ways unknowable. And right now they were not feeling particularly charitable. A wind sprang up, this one not warm, but cold, and carrying the stench of rot with it. It picked up speed as it rushed towards the two figures. It also picked up leaves, until it surrounded them in a maelstrom of color. The force kept building until the trees themselves started to bend. Or maybe they were moving of their own volition, lashing out with long branches to batter at the people in their midst. It wasn’t hard enough to do serious damage, just enough to bruise, but it was clear they were being driven, herded, to the outer edge of the forest.