DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
The Sword made no comment on the tensing, on the rigid contortions – fellow predators and warriors conveyed the same sentiments. It was preparation for battle, for upheaval, for sedition, constantly swarming and harpooning in their veins. Sometimes it was a flight instinct as well, for when the outcomes were not favorable, for when retreat was an inevitable sway, caught in the crossfire and incapable of alleviating the incoming anguish. He just usually failed miserably at the latter.But then the grin was there, an invitation in the shadows, and he lost the keen edge in his stature too, rummaging closer to inspect the basket. To be fair, he wouldn’t know the first thing about weaving, winding, or tucking in the fringes and fronds. He’d created one the previous year, mainly to show up the Fae in their own village, spiteful and petty after Amalia, Kiada, and the rest had been snagged, captured, and sacrificed. This year he’d done much the same: ornamental and adorned with fragments of worlds gone and fleeting, recollections and remembrances. “I do not. I just create mine,” half a smirk embedded, as if he’d found a way to cheat the system.
He settled himself against the nearest wall, still upright, a tower, a Colossus, as his hands came before him, gilded and glowing for a time as the crafting invocations contemplated and reeled once more. A gift, since they’d have to offer them at the festival anyway, concocted in his mind then came to life: silver dagger, polished and gilded handle, the long, slender pommel embellished in vivid lightning strikes, like a storm, like a tempest, like namesakes of Queens from before. Not the least bit helpful for Weaver though. "Yours looks fine."
Unite and spread the heart apart
