Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos fought off an eyeroll at her words; mostly because while they were true, he’d heard them several times before this moment in the past few weeks. No amount of explanations ever mattered – not to Safrin, not to other Naturals – despite the words pressing against his mouth, behind his teeth. That’d they’d tried to save others. That they went after their friends’ desecrated, ruined, marred forms. That in the end, none of it mattered. It only left him to wonder if any of their preparations did, or if at some point, the mere thought of them staying within the domiciles would pierce his skull. So the beast nodded, smothering down the molten breath threatening to fume in his lungs. A flaw, a defect, in his own vessel and entity.
Along the tidal falls of the fire, stoked and integrated into the ethers, into the vestiges, into the air, the cinders rolled and reeled, watching spikes of ascension and then descent, purposefully pulling some towards the oasis’ waters, so they dangled along treacherous wakes before sliding back to their brethren. They flowed in rapid succession, one after the other, in a fiery pattern of conflagration and power, prestige and prowess; the capabilities endless. She’d be able to do the same one day, for longer periods of time, if the cycles continued and persisted, if the world carried on as it often had. He made no mention of his creation magic being unruly and bizarre – concentration honed and harpooned on these levels of formidability and destruction – a comfort of known devastations.
Weaver’s mother sounded much like the childhood reaches of Isilme, not hovering, not shielding, but wiling to let her children run themselves into ruts, if not granting them a push beforehand. “What else did she have you do?” A light chuckle; series of memories following thereafter in his mind – days where they stretched their limbs across shorelines, heeding absolutely no warnings; childhood antics becoming schemes and plots, devices of growth out of ridiculousness and rampant, juvenile stupidity.
The implication of her brother being similar to him earned her an arched brow; a peering from the corner of his eyes. He seemed to embody that aura for several, uncertain of where and how he’d gained such prowess. The Sword managed another rumble of laughter at the last words, the implication layered within, another shrug and roll of his shoulders. “You have not disappointed me.”
Along the tidal falls of the fire, stoked and integrated into the ethers, into the vestiges, into the air, the cinders rolled and reeled, watching spikes of ascension and then descent, purposefully pulling some towards the oasis’ waters, so they dangled along treacherous wakes before sliding back to their brethren. They flowed in rapid succession, one after the other, in a fiery pattern of conflagration and power, prestige and prowess; the capabilities endless. She’d be able to do the same one day, for longer periods of time, if the cycles continued and persisted, if the world carried on as it often had. He made no mention of his creation magic being unruly and bizarre – concentration honed and harpooned on these levels of formidability and destruction – a comfort of known devastations.
Weaver’s mother sounded much like the childhood reaches of Isilme, not hovering, not shielding, but wiling to let her children run themselves into ruts, if not granting them a push beforehand. “What else did she have you do?” A light chuckle; series of memories following thereafter in his mind – days where they stretched their limbs across shorelines, heeding absolutely no warnings; childhood antics becoming schemes and plots, devices of growth out of ridiculousness and rampant, juvenile stupidity.
The implication of her brother being similar to him earned her an arched brow; a peering from the corner of his eyes. He seemed to embody that aura for several, uncertain of where and how he’d gained such prowess. The Sword managed another rumble of laughter at the last words, the implication layered within, another shrug and roll of his shoulders. “You have not disappointed me.”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
