[seasonal event] scrapes the sky and scars the earth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame “You.” Were this more the Reaper than the Sword, Deimos might have been thoroughly bemused by the alteration in the boy; more intimidating factions, a rigid contortion to his spine, a taut, tethered line of nonchalant, unattainable, unreachable features. But since he’d altered and changed since days of bestial barbarity, he only arched a brow, the deep rumble of his vocals hinting at naught, waiting for either acceptance or refusal. The monolith had no intention of eviscerating the child, even if the notion had contorted its way through his mind earlier, based on snappy, brusque, audacious perceptions – tilting his head a fraction as the youth deliberated. When he finally agreed, albeit a little less certain of himself moments before (either the bravery and undaunted motions had worn off, or something else had mustered in his speculations), the General maneuvered his bow along his back, freeing up his hands. Within an instant, the gilded glow ricocheted, contorting, creating, a path, a network of configurations and creation, molding, melding, a lighter, smaller bow, eyes lifting towards the boy on a scrutinizing whim, discerning how much to assemble and where he to cease on height differentials. When complete, it was enameled and lacquered in varnishes of sienna and amber, and he handed it over – extending the weapon, the munitions, with no strings attached (except for the bow-thread). No quiver or set of arrows yet either – no sense in coordinating those efforts until the child could actually utilize what he already had. “Test it,” he directed, grabbing his own again, modeling the act of positioning, holding, and drawing the strand back. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace