[SWE] The Festival of Lights

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place He shouldn’t have come – he could feel it in his bones, stifling his lungs, causing him to take a few steps back from the crowd, from the rushing throng of the unknown, of the ignorance, plunging confusion and ignorance back into the bastion. If you aren’t here to remember the dead, then leave washed over his senses, and he became just one more interloper, trespasser, looking on as the rest of the chaos spread. The Reaper’s eyes might have widened, taking in every sight, every sound, every scene, but was utterly incapable of doing much of anything; the world was a sea of red and shadow, cloaked and daggered, the flickering rain, the heat of a thousand embers, and he choked down the bile rasping, clawing, its way down his throat. He knew loss like the back of his hand, had loomed and brooded in its wake for what felt like an eternity, one binding tether after another, and they never blurred together, but seethed and tormented in a raging mass. You didn’t do anything would cut and slash its rough tenors along his brain, and he’d agree, he’d fall to his knees and admit he’d been a useless, ineffectual son, a poor beloved, a shadow when he should’ve triumphed, conquered, and destroyed. You were too late was a tattoo across his chest. You were worthless was an anthem of his livelihood; a sword in his heart, a rhythm to movement and motion. The savagery and nefarious endeavors were only a side effect, a motivation, past the brambles and thorns stuck in his side – he could picture them all, warriors and scholars, healers and titans, lords and ladies, stifled and fallen, gone to wisps of ash and sand; too late, too late, too late. The promises had never meant a damn thing; all the uncontrolled elements festered in his hands, their blood might as well have been riddled and rankled across his palms. He didn’t truly need lights in his eyes to remember them; they were always there, a shift in his schema. Deimos swallowed down the treacherous, looming convictions; thought about preparing a hundred lanterns for the deceased in his wake, in his memories, in the spine-tingling visions erupting from his skull, when the commotion continued brewing. Remi fainted; he’d crumbled, and the beast had missed it all, but there were others circling around his feet, and he backed off again, more hindrance than assistance. His brow quirked, and he wondered what to do – the calculating airs had no place here, in this woeful land of the unknown, shaded and jaded, and he was out of his element (nothing to stab, nothing to maul, nothing to obliterate). The piercing slate of his gaze wandered to Rexanna, then towards the one who’d proclaimed the factors surrounding the lanterns – he wanted to know more, to understand something, to be more than dead weight and uselessness in the crowded sanction, surrounded by ghosts, phantoms, and poignant, eerie trepidations. Was there somewhere he could prepare a lantern? Was there anything he could do besides stand amidst the rabble and ruin?

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}
Also brief mentions of Wessex ;D Captain Clueless continuing to report for duty.