The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He probably should’ve expected the embrace. But Deimos has never been one to presume anything positive flailed in his direction; not since wars, not since apathy, not since a rancorous edge to his teeth, a seditious spread to his bones. So Sascha’s arms flung around him was a bewildering surprise, eyes widening, utter shock rippling through his accord, the rest of his frame tight, taut, and rigid. The uncertainty of what to do was even more baffling. He offered embraces to those he considered family; scooped them up, held them tight, allowed them to proceed in layering their weight upon his shoulders, lest they all be consumed by the immeasurable tenacities and tendencies. Sascha wasn’t one of those things: but a friend perhaps, and by the time the Sword had puzzled over how to react, the fellow Artisan relieved him by releasing him, and volleying back to the bow. “You are welcome,” the beast prospered in return, snorting away anything else. Instead, he watched and witnessed as arrows were notched, as bowstrings, woven in perfection, were drawn and embellished, tactics sewn and honed: weapons landing exactly as they should’ve been. His head tilted, quiet in study and perusal. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace