after fury
what do you do
The Sword purposefully meandered around the notions that a year ago Amalia had died, a year ago they’d been meandering around in and amongst the abyss with panic, apprehension, and something dreadfully akin to ignorance. They were still stuck in the latter, but encouraged by the notions of what they’d experienced, thought they’d be more-equipped to handle the legions of monsters and fiends, to hide beneath their noses, or to directly defy them when they opened the doors, when they chased down broken remnants of friends. LongNight made him restless, curled and contorted over his frame, as if it purposefully insinuated he could only do so much, awaiting the inevitable, or brandishing irreverent wares. Sometimes, it simply didn’t matter, and the lack of control bristled at his skin. But he didn’t have much else to contribute here either, his eyes flickering down at Amalia at the mention of Outlanders, still the title after they’d immersed themselves within, because they weren’t natural, but tried, hastened, to do their best. At the notion of the luxere though, he shrugged; innocent and pure and good, everything a majority of them were not. “You can encourage them to remain by singing,” which, if he were in a better mood, would’ve made him chuckle at the very least – because his attempts had been close to disastrous had it not been for Amalia’s efforts (though he did reserve a smirk for her, a pulse of lifting raptures).
with the remains?
DEIMOS
