[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Perhaps, if it could be considered lucky or fortunate, their wars hadn’t been cataclysms for decades. Instead they were spiraling masses of hatred and vehemence, galvanized by those rising to instigating challenges and wild provocations – leading further and further into vengeance and recoil, down the mustered holes of cycles of revenge and petty tactics. He wasn’t certain if it was something to be proud of, and the lines, the cuts, the scars were all borne across his figure, inward and outward; each a trial, each a tribulation, each an oath and ultimatum until it ceased and desisted. “One,” and it hadn’t even really mattered – not to them, not to the Basin, already instilled in its might by then. The ones that had conjured and condoned had been before: a loss of their homeland, a split of their resistance to show menace and malice, power and precision, signifying nothing but the feral, savage intervals they contained from within. Even then, his first action as king, because it’d been one of the defeats that led him to crowns, had been to assist in establishing some armistice. His tone was neither proud or ignited; simplistic in its rumbling, in its ricocheting, feats of fortitude and survival, learning from their pinnacles, their scrapes, their bruises. Vague – and he might’ve been intentional about that, not slipping into details or particulars because some amount of it hurt. His gaze lifted from his basket, the final, finishing touches established on its front, pondering the depths of the insides, resting them on the oasis beyond, on Zuriel’s frame, on the way things once were and could never be again. “We had similar weather. Bland food,” a snort unraveled, because food had been the last thing on their minds – war and unbalancing each other’s sovereignties, toppling foes, pressing their dominance and supremacy into the world. “Some wore plainer clothes. Some were extravagant.” Bright hues and colors, like ornamental designs of look at me. His had never been, an obvious statement, preferring darker hues, blending into traces of shadows and igniting his presence in formidable, foreboding statures. “Style?” It earned an arched brow, some semblance of humor, as if asking for elaboration out of mere curiosity.

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