like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Merciless, blood-thirsty things, primordial callings and stirrings in malicious, unrelenting flames: recognizing it in her because he had it too, because they’d always followed those patterns of destruction, of demolition, of wreckage, of ruin. Habitual and routine, even in times of repose, to plot out orchestrations and tactics of warfare or melee, desperate to crush something under their feet before it’d even reared its head. A hard thing to break, to wash away from their stained, enigmatic, vehement souls, and so sometimes he just accepted it, walked the fine lines of defensive maneuvers and sieging procedures. Today all he wanted to do was slaughter. “Not really,” he answered her at the approach, at the entanglement of mountain essences, at the rage, the smoking, fanning motions, unwinding under his skin. To puncture, to pierce, to maim and maul something in those frustrating aspects, when nothing seemed to go well, when everything was a horrid, horrific mess. “Unless you hate those squirrels.” His eyes lifted in general to the speaking rodents, who’d already started their incessant outcries, chatter, and nonsense (this way calling towards the entrance, and then bounding for another intertwining branch). He’d be content to rampage against anything at this point, irritating squirrels or otherwise. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace