[seasonal event] scrapes the sky and scars the earth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The arrow’s impact was true and ensconced in the swell of the muck, but the shaft had no sooner struck than the mire simply seemed to erode around it, slinking downwards, lingering down the trunk. He marched forward, bow lowered, intending to remove the munition from bark, when a call erupted over the trees, echoing and bounding along copses and vines. He shifted, turning, a singular arch to his brow as an unfamiliar, mouthy child (because apparently his experiences in Helovia hadn’t been enough to signify ridiculous youths in his mind, now they were everywhere here too) – apparently defending the mud. For a moment, he thought about not replying at all, because the situation seemed completely, utterly foolish, and he could be doing a thousand other things than arguing over semantics of memory mud, if the maneuvering blobs felt pain and anguish, or how many individuals seemed to rush headlong into something without forethought. Did the youth have a death wish, to rush upon someone with a weapon? Instead of responding, he first grabbed hold of the arrow, returning it to his quiver, and then the silt itself, bringing it along his hands and stretching it out, allowing the boy, the stranger, to see the thing had already reformed, as if naught had touched, scorched, or maimed it at all. He tilted his head in the vaguest sense of scrutiny, the kind where predators pondered how quickly they could catch and tear; before uttering anything at all. “Do you intend to save them all?” Deimos hadn’t heard of anyone endeavoring for the plight and fate of mud, but he was hardly shocked by anything anymore. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace