fracture patterns

Deimos If they’d been mere reflections, then the puddles wouldn’t have been anything worth noting. Instead, they harbored an assemblage of other connotations, but he had no rhyme, no reason, no explanation for it. The Sword’s eyes kept upon the fiery, infernal assembly, pondering if it was to be like his own, or his father’s, a blade reflected in its midst. When nothing more came to fruition, looking like the embers, the kindling, the provoked conflagration would spear the air, come through the undulations, the ripples, he moved away. His sharpened gaze flickered briefly to Ronin, who must’ve seen something he didn’t enjoy, harsh, fleeing motions, an unsettled faction bristling at the seams. While Zuriel seemed to find them amusing and enjoyable, and perhaps it was for a unicorn (what sort of pictures would be conjured there anyway – when she was free from guilt, cumbersome weight across her shoulders, or the depths of failure). A glance towards the one closest to him revealed snippets of rock and granule flickering across depths and fathoms, sprouts aligning, fanning, rising from the earth. “I was witness to some last year. I thought they might be visions of the future.” But then the earthen wares, that newly crafted enchantment embedded in his veins, shifted to a familiar sight only echoing and bounding in his dreams, in his memories, and he clenched his jaw, maneuvering towards another immediately. “But perhaps not.” Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime