like a wild thing

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Ridiculous. A spark of derision and rancor coiled within his bones as the embers unraveled far too quickly, far too vast, far too wild. His usual countenance was one of perfected control and composure, and he expected his enchantments to follow suit – feral, savage, and wild, but dominated by his decisions and strength. Instead they warped and licked along the walls, careening along wind and crackled, decaying leaves, foliage crackled and defied within moments, succumbed, consumed, devoured in its rampant haste. The squirrels counted too, perhaps, but he hadn’t intended to smoke and fume the entire walls of the labyrinth. His eyes narrowed to an unimpressed decree, even more irritated than his usual solemn, stoic regard. Within a second his hands extended outwards, calling to the wayward embers, and they spiraled along, vacating the once-green barriers, partitions, and beginnings to the warren, interloping with scorch marks, burnt edges, and the scent of singed fur. “Oops,” the Sword shrugged, perfecting the art of nonchalance while inwardly he was a seething maelstrom of contempt for his own failings. If it were any other structure, he might’ve cared more – he trusted the entanglement would survive, live to thrive on its smoldering convictions. He did, however, unleash a torrent of water to douse any remaining simmering effects, watching it rise, fall, and cascade, until he was finished with his bidding. A sigh followed, watching the slip of her electricity snap and crackle, the squirrel’s death knells signaled in a singular squeak and twitching of its form. “Do you have enough?” Or were they to unleash more – hesitant to destroy every other contortion in the vicinity. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace