[PQ] [se] beneath the sun

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

Chulane, enduring and persevering, finally conquered the flower crowns. The foundations eventually tied in together nicely, allowing for the décor, adornments, and ornamental structures to form neatly, efficiently, and would be easily rendered into something worn. Without wounding the holder, which was always a bonus. Deimos arched a brow at their easygoing banter, permitting the slander of the Wraith to remain unchecked, since it wasn’t quite a falsehood.

It was the first time, and hopefully only, that Arialla fumbled in her work. While her painting, brushstrokes of blue, the sea calling her home, was efficient, the candle also slipped, and yearned to roll across the table, leaving spatters of the hue along the surface. A mere fumbling, but it might’ve messed up her artwork along the wax too.

Let it be known Deimos always tried; but gentler, more delicate things and matters seemed to crumble beneath calloused hands and battlefield mentality. His last venture was towards the wreaths, and the process, the thought, behind his earlier directions suddenly caused him to still. He glanced over the branches, the softer, willowy sticks he’d gathered, pondering which home to designated. The Hollowed Grounds, here and now, where the people had made it a shelter, a sanctuary? The Moonlit Tides, where he was born and raised, running next to surf and swell? The Aurora Basin, where he’d been King of mountains and summits?

In the end, he deigned towards all three – hues of blue, grey, and ivory woven together, the boughs bending under his might. Before long, however, he noted the wreath ended up looking more like a weapon, with the branches jutting out ominously. Shrugging, since he liked the ominous effect, he placed a few more symbolic gestures in.

Wessex, also at the wreath table, had far better luck than the Sword. The blossoms stayed in their beatific positions, the rounded contortions swirling to her exact measurements – nature in its cycles, representations of life and the toils, coils, it took. She, more so than most in this room, likely knew and understood its complexities.

Eventually, Deimos began collecting the artifacts already christened, anointed, and made, rising from the bench and grabbing hold of some boxes. Placing fabric and light paper in between, ensuring the whimsical vessels stayed as such in the impending delivery, his voice measured quietly amongst those gathered. “You are welcome to continue working. If you think you are finished, we can start putting them away to deliver to the Greatwood.” His eyes went to several other boxes resting nearby.

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Chulane has conquered the flower crowns, Wessex has bent her wreath to her will, Arialla’s candle has a mind of its own, and to no one’s surprise, Deimos’ wreath looks like a weapon.

Last round! You can work on something you haven’t yet, or help Deimos put things together to deliver all of our lovely objects to the Greatwood!

under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed