near half-empty

Deimos Had the Sword not been born, raised, and grown in worlds filled with omnipresent, corporeal, tangible gods and beings, he might have shirked the entire thing off too. Truth be told, he’d done it on numerous occasions out of nonchalance, irreverence, and an apathetic upheaval: ignoring one another as best they all could. The beast had come to them in hours of need and they’d done nothing – ghosts on the wind, whispers in the storm – and his reliance on their schemes, on their machinations, was shut off completely: in Isilme, in Helovia, and the pattern might’ve continued here (and had, for some time). Only Amalia’s influence ensured he’d ever met Safrin at all, and likely why the notions, the sojourns, had spiraled and carried on at all; catalysts of Shield properties. But Libbs seemed to either accept it or just not comment on it – which was fine by him. Explaining it time and time again just made him vexed. At least her inquiries made sense, didn’t ask why he was doing this, what torment, anguish, or rancor had drained down parts of his soul. “I did not receive much for particulars.” Just leaves; no accord for their make or mark, just withering properties galvanized. “I was hoping to find one completely withered.” Dead; no life left in its veins or hues, browned, shorn, cut off completely from either its limbs, boughs, or brambles. Which should’ve been easy enough, given the dry, hot season. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime