like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame His brows lifted, repelling beastly attacks was easily rendered and done, though the latter portion of switching sides caused the briefest of calculations, before he decided not to bother submerging himself into those fathoms. “Of course,” loose definitions and vague undertones, predilections of seething graces or deity scrawls, meant to not be manifested in whole directions. “We can at least get the first out of the way.” She was on her own in the other details. In truth, he was content to unravel some mayhem, some bedlam, some wreckage of his own, instead of constantly fighting the onslaught the world provided. Here it was simplistic: blood for blood, vexation rendered mute, obsolete, tides of their storms and provisions, prowess in the long-lost acrimony. There were no dragons reigning down upon them. There were no friends’ lives cut and abolished within an instant, no chance, no opportunity, to erase the moment. They were clear-cut and precise, annihilation simply for annihilation’s sake; a controlled aspect of vehemence and violence he hadn’t been able to unleash, unfurl, in ages. Perhaps it was the same for her: lifetimes expanded in harsh climates and realms, only to be composed, comprised, into something entirely different here. Time for shared bloodshed, for vitriol and constancy. The Sword notched an arrow into his bow as she advanced, watching, waiting, as her crop flew through the air with distinct cracks. The squirrels maneuvered out of fear or distaste, several marching in different directions along the top of the hedges – he drew his bowstring taut, before releasing the thread, allowing it to fly towards one rodent chattering on the edges. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace