Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
The Oasis was a siren, beckoning and clawing, eldritch and tenacious, like so many other remnants of his life – not a portion of the sea, but water nonetheless. Eventually, he wondered, if he’d be infused and immersed into so many elements that it wouldn’t matter anymore, and the earth would call, rampant and craving at every hour.
Today it was for fishing, for hunting, for something beyond extreme measures or volatility, awakening, burdening maelstroms. He was without Zuriel, the unicorn flocking to the slight remains of grass behind his house, and his stride was careful, precise, without her hooves drifting amongst the crisp, fallen leaves either. The world was varnished and lacquered with blends of color, the hints of winter coming, the dread of another starting (which was too bad, when he so readily savored the chill, the reminders of another world, another past, where all they’d ever done was thrive in its hellhole). The year before they’d begun fighting others amidst the blight – and this one lacked the incitement, the unraveling, or was just a transient calm, intangible, incorporeal, waiting for the right moment to peel and fall apart.
He stalked the grounds quietly, a hush in his movements despite his size and bulk, too many days spent in silent savagery to not have learned the inveigling, specious deceit of a precise footfall. The bow and quiver on his back and shoulder barely moved, and he might’ve proceeded with the utmost control, had the familiar sizzle of fire not been in his peripheral vision.
The corner of his piercing eyes caught the wake of embers, turning, twisting; the first notion to cease it altogether, because he’d spent too many hours, too many days, in its strength, in watching it unfurl and devour. Until it was his, and then it too consumed; power pulsing, rampant, a decadent, pressing finesse to its destruction. The next set of seconds and intervals passed through his lungs though, and he recognized Weaver. Nothing else was ablaze, save for the orb she contorted and created. Nothing else was burning down around them. No flinthoppers. No Monster Hunter’s Guild. No Spire bellowing its ash and explosives around him, fracturing him to the core.
So he approached, but no longer in the savage, nefarious wake of a carnivore; a call sharpening over the horizon, deep bellows of appreciation, half a snort, a chuckle tucked within. “You have improved.”
Today it was for fishing, for hunting, for something beyond extreme measures or volatility, awakening, burdening maelstroms. He was without Zuriel, the unicorn flocking to the slight remains of grass behind his house, and his stride was careful, precise, without her hooves drifting amongst the crisp, fallen leaves either. The world was varnished and lacquered with blends of color, the hints of winter coming, the dread of another starting (which was too bad, when he so readily savored the chill, the reminders of another world, another past, where all they’d ever done was thrive in its hellhole). The year before they’d begun fighting others amidst the blight – and this one lacked the incitement, the unraveling, or was just a transient calm, intangible, incorporeal, waiting for the right moment to peel and fall apart.
He stalked the grounds quietly, a hush in his movements despite his size and bulk, too many days spent in silent savagery to not have learned the inveigling, specious deceit of a precise footfall. The bow and quiver on his back and shoulder barely moved, and he might’ve proceeded with the utmost control, had the familiar sizzle of fire not been in his peripheral vision.
The corner of his piercing eyes caught the wake of embers, turning, twisting; the first notion to cease it altogether, because he’d spent too many hours, too many days, in its strength, in watching it unfurl and devour. Until it was his, and then it too consumed; power pulsing, rampant, a decadent, pressing finesse to its destruction. The next set of seconds and intervals passed through his lungs though, and he recognized Weaver. Nothing else was ablaze, save for the orb she contorted and created. Nothing else was burning down around them. No flinthoppers. No Monster Hunter’s Guild. No Spire bellowing its ash and explosives around him, fracturing him to the core.
So he approached, but no longer in the savage, nefarious wake of a carnivore; a call sharpening over the horizon, deep bellows of appreciation, half a snort, a chuckle tucked within. “You have improved.”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
