[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos Deimos had no explanation other than time or strength in accordance with the movement, the growth of magic and its many refrains and stanzas. He’d asked others before, considered the hows, the whys, the rituals required and needed for expansion – in Helovia, it had been simply gained either through one’s birth, or along the way, general musings granted by gods feeling altruistic (rare), or another unearthly, bizarre connotation. Here, it didn’t seem to matter – no one muted, no one defied, no one squandered or forgotten, able to dig deep and relish their abilities to a heightened level, new discoveries, new methods, new machinations all the time. “Yes,” he applied, surprising, bewildering, but something he savored, and relished with each passing day. Power, potential, and prowess had been at the root of him, at the core of him, since the moment he’d picked up a sword on sandy training grounds, or bit into the wake of the incantations collected and contorted in his soul. Her amusement was notched with a raising of his brow; because there had been moments where he’d sunk into their expanse and hadn’t intended to escape (fire, conflagration). He beseeched a tiny ember to flicker over his palm, and then naught more; idle smirks drifting along his mouth in the ensuing silence. The mountain nodded at her proclamation, enjoying the sound of ambition instead of the funneling wake of disaster, of ruin, of the way they were often defeated. Kiada had never been a being he thought to collapse – but worlds rocked and marred so often had their way of beleaguering the strongest of cretins and creatures, no matter how much fire, how much fuel, how much irreverence they held. His answering smile was encouragement enough, an emboldened, audacious thing; not riddled by the rancor, defiant to the last. The following round of laughter, brought on completely by accidental, coincidental motives, flickered and bounded, resided in the depths of his growing, mischievous ends. There wasn’t even a semblance of surprise when the rebuttal arrived, flung and striking him down the center of his brow, sliding down the length of his nose. He snorted and chuckled, before ricocheting again, the poor flowers briefly forgotten in the broadening wake of devilry and amusement – palms curling over a mound of mud and soil before launching it solely at her crouched form. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime