[Seasonal Event] Good Gourd

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The relish of destruction and annihilation was an incandescent, brilliant thing to his being: he was disaster, he was ruin, he was power, and he was domination. Another kick sent one more gourd flying, and the smash of its sides against the building was music to his ears; hardly the war-torn battlefields, but something amusing and diverting all the same. He set about rounding another one into its unfortunate demise, when the rescued soul at his feet had managed to sit up, looking quite embarrassed, sheepish, the kind of moments where one is snagged and snared in a ridiculous trap. The Reaper paid this no mind: he’d been in a thousand other mishaps as a child, growing wild and free along beaches, sand, surf, and lone, wild prairies. Normally, however, he didn’t play the role of savior; that was reserved for more beatific bodies, those with morals, and not lacquered, lacquered, with boundless iniquity. So he wasn’t exactly sure what had come over him in those feral instances – perhaps just the chase, just the mayhem, just the consignment to oblivion – but he’d save the thoughts and nuances later, closed them off with a simple shrug, a nonchalant stare rendered over his features. He nodded at the fellow, but otherwise didn’t engage in conversation: what did one say about a hoard of attacking pumpkins? A distraction fettered him away from having to disclose anything else; Amalia’s presence came with a strike of her staff and a broadened command. He turned her way and arched his brow; ordinarily blistering and simmering at the notion of having to listen to any sort of authority, but the promise of food kept the residual resentment buried, away from his stomach. The heathen’s stare flickered back to the bludgeoned vegetables sinking down house walls and building columns, eyeing the spray of seeds and pulp along the street. Apparently these wouldn’t do. It was too bad really, because he’d taken great joy in ensuring their demise. At the suggestion of the stranger, he noted a gourd managing to sidle its way towards their vicinity. Quick, swift, despite his massive size, he seized a hold along the stem, slightly irritated and irked by the thorny ambience of the rough skin, and held it tightly underneath his arm, indifferent to its squirms and pleas. “I am Deimos,” he added into the air, mostly intended for Rory, making the only conversation he could come up with at the time.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}