[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos The calm before or after the storm; their mercurial, tempestuous marks clinging in waves of mud and muck, the ether of LongNight long since established, and the formidable future strewn about in the collective unknown – it was likely the only repose they’d have for a while. Because that was how their lives threaded through these sanctions, brief, brief, brief intervals of sanctums and sanctuaries, the notion of breaths without cumbersome, weighty loads, before the next slide of dominion, supremacy, a straightening of shoulders, spines rigid and taut, waiting for the next blow. He’d faced an enormous amount of onslaughts, and so had she; strong and enduring, persevering and fortifying, pondering what the next cataclysm would be, and how they’d defeat it. There wasn’t a question of if or when; defiance and sedition a funneling in their blood, how they had remained for so long amongst mountain ranges, and spiraled into other worlds. Which were poignant fringes now, ever since they’d seen them, lived them, breathed them in Safrin’s library, in the pages of books, on labyrinthine clouds and billowing fog, spirals of the World’s Edge haunting his ichor. Whether or not it would all come together remained to be seen; not a master of foretelling or foreboding, playing along the regions of the unknown like the rest of the void, abyss, and world, biding his time, stalking the plains, tracing the shadows. At her childish dreams the beast only smiled; they’d already played amidst the mischief, the crag, the ruin of anything resembling mature inclinations. Utterly juvenile, it’d been a play into something other than devastation, readily taken, grasped, held, with avaricious, rapacious ends. His eyes still remained on the sky, on the clouds, on things that might break the horizon – pointed peaks and endless, wintery winds, chilling, bestial airs, a whisper of things they once had. “Or a lake. Hot springs.” The beast shrugged, as if they didn’t matter, when they did, they did, they did – pieces and fragments of the past. He didn’t expect that world to be the same, and he didn’t linger on the probability of dashed hopes: just the potential, just the prowess. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime