fracture patterns

Deimos Deimos had never been one to believe in fortunes. The man was a devout disciple to one’s own abilities, boldness, and strength – how it rippled through centuries, outlines, and sketches was under their prowess. Being foretold, laying claim to beckoning, ominous shadows, or marking it off as serendipitous, kismet fate had always seethed and railed against his beliefs. If everything was left open to something already ordained, then why would they bother with any actions, any motives, any circumstances? Perhaps he’d spent far too much time as a soldier, a warrior, to bend his head towards providence; eternally attempting to forge his path. It might be laden with thorns, nettles, scars, and wounds, but the Sword likely wouldn’t have it any other way. “I see things from the past, and vague depictions.” That could be anything at all; underlying ruminations of dreams still winding through his head, as if plucked from deep slumber, where the roots of yesteryears gathered most often. The next puddle featured strong, stalwart mountains, a clenching of nostalgia burning and bristling at the corners of his icy heart. The blending of the auroras’ hues was just another nail in his soul, and he only looked up to evade the pain and torment. “We had some that pretended, for festivals.” Amusements, for those to wander up and ask what their future held – made up on the spot, likely depending on their victims’ facial expressions. Oracles were another matter entirely – speakers for the gods, except they showed up whenever they felt like it, and the Haruspex was either a mouthpiece or a keeper of that mirror in the special, christened cave. “Did you?” Was that something other Outlanders had manifested? Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime