[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 Deimos had long since fallen into the role of predator. Once, it’d all been a game, eager, young boys waiting to make their fortunes in boldness and acrimony. Thereafter, when blades had fallen, bones had been whittled away and bleached by the sun, when flesh had peeled apart from bone, when faces that had been friends were no longer recognizable, the playing, the diversions, were long gone. He’d been solidified, carved, molded into a scythe, a stone, a bayonet, an instrument of death. Survival had drenched him in detachment, persistence, endurance, and strength had layered him into a terrifying, demonic figure. He’d lived, but only just so, in the waking, breathing instances of tangibility, touching and scalding the earth, blistering fortifications because he could and for a while it was habit, it was comforting, it was something beyond misery, melancholy, and agony. When it’d begun to peel away again, when some form of assuaging touched over his skin, when he laughed instead of hissed, when he smirked instead of growled, the world was his: attainable, reachable, no longer so forlorn, so desolate. Perhaps he’d been cursed, forced to follow these paths of hollowed sanctions, marching in the sketched outlines of triumphs and imminent downfalls, joy robbed from his soul the instant his heart had been lightened. Maybe he’d messed up again, too terrorizing, too menacing, too aggressive and terrifying in a tiny space, believing harm had come to one of them, summoned by those instincts, those puncturing, pulverizing occasions when nightmares were reality, where one carried their companions on shields, where one watched the world burn before them. The Reaper expected them to say something, anything, raise their guards and shove him away (for that would meander along the patterns too, cold and aloof once more), or order him to leave. The beast didn’t look their way, just listened, tense and taut, a fuse kindled, incensed, ready to flee in any direction. It was the sort of strange, bewildering cowardice in a man who’d seen, who’d committed, acts of utter terror, because he knew, he’d experienced, the consequences of his flaws. But then, it was just silence. Not a word was said – not an oath, not a curse, not a damnation, not even a muffled outcry. His mind whirled, confusion imminent, brows furrowing because he couldn’t understand why they didn’t shriek or howl. Their eyes had widened, Rory had been signaled into an alarm, whirling to meet the danger that wasn’t there. He’d seen Amalia’s stare, the confusion and bewilderment behind it. He dared a peek, waiting for the ax to fall, piercing gaze flickering back and forth over the others, waiting, wondering, but naught came his way - granted permission to keep his secrets, his sorrows, his utterly ridiculous notions and motions to himself. It seemed like acceptance, and he didn’t know what to do with it. They’d already seen who he was: had been witness to his pulverizing of pumpkins and gourds, and though it wasn’t with any difficulty, it was the action behind it, the fervency, the ardor, the battlefield maneuvers, the killing precision hovering over his dark essence. So he released another hardened, quaking breath, moved back to destruction, listening to the sounds of contentment behind him, and smothered a laugh. Until Amalia approached again, and he glanced up, expecting this to be the interval in the strain, the catalyst, the orchestration of his exit. The depths of his eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious, waiting for the strike, the siege, the way others had left intangible scars along his figure. But then the plate came into his view too, and the offering was there, amiable and amicable, completely innocent, and he felt so stupid. “Yes,” his deep intonation rumbled, hands reaching for one before realizing they were covered in pulp, then awkwardly wiping them on a nearby rag, so the scones would be left undisturbed, unsullied, by their former brethren. He tried once more, meeting her stare again as he grabbed the closest one, still warm to the touch, brought to his mouth with a relish. “Thank you.” Then he bit down, and he would’ve agreed with Rory had he not been wholly intent on consuming the pastry (truly divine, like he’d ever had a moment amidst gods and their ambrosia). There was a growl of appreciation in his next words, a hint of a smile, as he strove to make amends for ineptitude and asinine indulgence. “Delicious.”

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