[seasonal event] wasted faith

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace No other nuances on aiming except that it was different, and he must not have understood or comprehended it, having never held or wielded such a machine. He nearly asked if it held the magnitude of the catapult, or some other smaller forms of propulsion, like slingshots, but if the difficulty in explanations was already there, he didn’t feel the need to continue onwards into a scraping derision. So he nodded, accepting what he could from the demonstration. Could you show me some surprised him; though he wasn’t certain why, a knot in his chest at the thought of either being on display, or all the other nuances in his lifetimes where others had begged. Because of their innate curiosity. Because they’d wanted to stand close to flames and pretend they were stronger than the might, the power, the precision behind it, when they knew he wouldn’t unfurl it upon their presence (allies and comrades – adversaries and enemies were an entirely different story). Or they grew afraid, bewildered, standing back and away (and lords; sometimes he’d craved for the way their skin ran cold and their eyes widened, wanting the fear, the intimidation, the rancor gliding back over his surface). Normally, he simply utilized them when necessary: the primordial fathoms of the shadows unleashed from his essence, silent and deadly, stoked into draining essences and eldritch abominations, instilled within him since he was a child, the rush of fire and fervor, or creation, adorned in its gilded glow. Other moments had been shrouded in training propositions, instigating and unraveling them to pit strength against strength. But in the midst of silence, he agreed and complied: turning one palm towards the sun, and permitting the slip of power to rush through fingers, skin, and flesh: fire rising from calloused conflagrations, neither embers nor cinders, but all inferno properties, stretching and stretching, inspired to reach the heavens or oblivion, given the option, before dancing and scalding across the tips of his digits, and rushing back into his hold. His father had committed the same action so many times – playing, pretending, as they walked amongst shoal and surf, as the moonlit tides rushed to greet them, as currents promised predilection, and the world hadn’t seemed so vast, so daunting. “I also have life drain,” which he doubted Adam would want to bear witness upon – not something one could see, only feel. Better subjects were with Attuned machinations, listening with a quiet snort as Safrin orchestrated another role – though it sounded as if Adam’s was far less lethal than his own transformation – the way the celestials favored, preferred others. Not a surprise or a shock. “Congratulations.” All because he offered a drink; a grumble of amusement fanning from somewhere in his chest. “She dropped me from the sky when I asked for mine.” A ghost of a smile lifted there, as if he hadn’t been fully prepared to die again, rampaging through the wind and wraiths, while phantoms called out to him and told him to fly.

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