Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Deimos had come from multiple worlds where inhabitants knew how to survive, how to fight, how to seethe, how to brood. Not doing anything but linger inside shelter had never been his strong suit, prone to restlessly pacing the floors, becoming a gloomy fixture in the corners, or working on incantations, artifacts, to distract himself. Last LongNight had been pitfall after pitfall, and they’d likely need to make it very clear to those gathered this year about what the expectations were. No more heroics, no more talking to monsters (the haunting image of Rexanna’s impalement would never go away), no more embracing the darkness, the demons, as they swelled up around them. They’d have to cease in throwing caution to the wind, and embody it; something he’d have to fight himself to embody.
While she plucked at the edges of his fire, he blistered them back in return: they volleyed and rallied, those infernal cinders, twisting, curling, and contorting along the hovering inches above the Oasis, a taunt, a challenge to water, before he grasped hold of the ripples, the undulations in the pool too. A trial, a test, for his own endurance and fortitude, watching as they wrestled back and forth, as steam hissed and sibilated along the expanse, as he listened with a nonchalant brow.
His own mother hadn’t been quite in the way of Weaver’s – hers a more scholarly, surly dictation. His father likely would’ve been the type to send his children off into wakes and see what they did, how they made themselves, doing much the same as Deimos’ juvenile tactics played out at sea, crossed over waves and sands, held a sword aloft. “Practical skills,” he uttered, because they were, especially here.
The Sword’s siblings were really by bond, and not blood: those like Hotaru, like Rexanna, who’d understood and known him for so long that they could expand the teasing and taunting long before he settled in for irritation and silence. They picked him apart and knew he’d always be there for him. He guarded, he presided, and he listened – their knowledge and sagacity orchestrating a long-lasting reign before ultimate demises. To be back in their midst was something he cherished, though he’d never tell them that. Liking Weaver’s brother was intriguing, because he didn’t like many; there were those that he saw as shelter in the storm (few, but loved and honored), those that were comrades in arms, those that were acquaintances and friends, and then those left off in the sanction, ignored. So he shrugged at the comment, because they’d never know. “Did you have a large family?” A safer topic, perhaps.
While she plucked at the edges of his fire, he blistered them back in return: they volleyed and rallied, those infernal cinders, twisting, curling, and contorting along the hovering inches above the Oasis, a taunt, a challenge to water, before he grasped hold of the ripples, the undulations in the pool too. A trial, a test, for his own endurance and fortitude, watching as they wrestled back and forth, as steam hissed and sibilated along the expanse, as he listened with a nonchalant brow.
His own mother hadn’t been quite in the way of Weaver’s – hers a more scholarly, surly dictation. His father likely would’ve been the type to send his children off into wakes and see what they did, how they made themselves, doing much the same as Deimos’ juvenile tactics played out at sea, crossed over waves and sands, held a sword aloft. “Practical skills,” he uttered, because they were, especially here.
The Sword’s siblings were really by bond, and not blood: those like Hotaru, like Rexanna, who’d understood and known him for so long that they could expand the teasing and taunting long before he settled in for irritation and silence. They picked him apart and knew he’d always be there for him. He guarded, he presided, and he listened – their knowledge and sagacity orchestrating a long-lasting reign before ultimate demises. To be back in their midst was something he cherished, though he’d never tell them that. Liking Weaver’s brother was intriguing, because he didn’t like many; there were those that he saw as shelter in the storm (few, but loved and honored), those that were comrades in arms, those that were acquaintances and friends, and then those left off in the sanction, ignored. So he shrugged at the comment, because they’d never know. “Did you have a large family?” A safer topic, perhaps.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
