[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos More mud was made into ensuing symbols, a raw chuckle as the muck drenched across his shoulder and reigning down the length of his arms were drawn, outlined, and sketched into little snowflakes; shapes elongated to emphasize regions of his colder, calculating regions of worth. Despite Jigano’s insistence upon his artistic qualities, their haphazard mire displays left a lot to be desired – but perhaps, better representations of life instead of primordial blood and ichor stains, gifts of the battlefield. Her cackles were worth the siege of terror, the volleys of silly, foolish interludes; the beast would rather listen to those decibels than the echoing throng of LongNight’s mercurial torrents for centuries to come. Joy and amusements never seemed to stick as long as every other rumination, left aside when treachery stalked and ached; perhaps they could fill the gaping void now, with ridiculous antics and festive celebration – a release of primeval heartaches. At her quick quip, a sharper inhale of breath, he raised his head from beyond the green stalks and garden preludes, the challenge and instigation crackling between them. “Too much?” He provoked, he teased, he incensed, before ducking down further, trusting she’d inform him if his efforts became more than she could handle, more than what she craved. It didn’t seem to matter anyway; the Harpy had vengeance planned and orchestrated, and no amount of crouching into brush and herbs would save him from her onslaught. The beast attempted his best, but at her soaring, and then the sudden descent of the silt, dirt, and puddle assignations, there was only a cascade of earth showered down upon his form, plunging along his neck and head. Snorting, laughing, and then shaking his cranium, rather than following and taking to the skies, the General reached forward and grabbed hold of nearest puddle, tightening it into a ball in his grip. Then, he shifted, turned, to witness, watch, scrutinize her movements; maneuvering beneath her wake as if it were target practice, though only slightly more innocent in his exploits, drawing his arm back, launching scattered muck and mud towards her gliding form. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime