[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos He mulled over the question for a moment, repeating movements and motions, scooping out bits of earth, placing roots and stalks within, and then gently closing up the abyss. “Yes,” he finally agreed, brows still furrowed in the contemplation. He’d always been aware of his enchantments, of his incantations, a command, a demand, from his figure, brandished, applied, and executed at his will. Life drain had been as much a part of him as the mountains, as war, as invasions, as plotting machinations and fanning flames; provocations in the midst of grander, greater ambitions. The Attuned contortions were fresh, new, and sometimes entirely foreign, no explanations given, brandished from his blood with nothing otherwise noted except his imminent confusion. “It is like I have no control over it.” Yet; because he wouldn’t readily admit his lack of contortions without that semblance – eternally bound for dominance, sway, authority, and power. “It just happens.” Or perhaps he just didn’t know where or what he was applying yet – bewildering, confusing, but respected and honored nonetheless. He somehow managed to garner a smile, so he returned it, small and finite, and there all the same; remnants of times before ghosts and failures. “Soon.” A promise, of her strength and accord, not pressing any further than that – palms back into the soil, into the dirt, somewhat furtive, duplicitous again in his foils and planning, tired and fatigued of the constant melancholy and angst surrounding all of them (would eternally admit at least half was his own). On a completely reserved entanglement of his features, as if they rendered no hostility, no acrimony, no piece or portion of mischief, he accidentally loosened a piece of soil, a little mud, from his hands in a rough movement, watching form the corner of his eye as it spiraled towards her. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime