[seasonal event] scrapes the sky and scars the earth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He listened to the rambling, head tilted vaguely, expression heightened to pinnacle reticence, reserve, and utter nonchalance. Deimos hadn’t intended to make the boy his newest target anyway, though the notion seemed particularly promising, and he almost laughed at the thought of the youth rampaging through the woods, eager to escape the snap of the string, the loosening of another arrow, unfurling, unfurling, unfurling. The apathetic gaze broke only to arch a brow, jaw unhinging to barely, briefly, expand on further information. “This mud moves.” To prove his point, he placed the muck down on the ground, where it began to wiggle and maneuver as best one could without legs, sifting and shifting along the soil – left to its own devices once more. His gaze, piercing, segmented back to the boy, who appeared nervous, apprehensive, after his initial blistering statement – perhaps regretful or uncertain about what the General might do next. It humored and amused him briefly. As far as the child hastening off though; the Sword hadn’t intended to assail him off into the next void. “Do you want to try?” An offering instead, before the stranger backed into a tree or something. He could always hasten another bow, something smaller, or an actual, makeshift target, since his preference didn’t glean towards moving mud. Education, wisdom, and sagacity were always a prominent feature in the monolith’s mind – simply for the sake of being able to defend one’s self. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace