death, you bring death and destruction to all that you touch
The mare was immediately content, ivories snatching once her first apple was completed, cheeks full of the fruit, comfortable and transfixed by the multiple offerings. She continued to gnaw on them even as Sunjata moved on, content with the reward for her dutiful, soothing, mending, healing efforts.
If only Deimos was so easily subdued. He moved along the field so that the weight of the world couldn’t quite catch him, so the earth below wouldn’t devour him, so he could find a balance along the precariousness of the looming void. It pulled and tugged, it scraped and chiseled, it wore and bore a cumbersome, overbearing, overwhelming decree along his spine, until he thought he might fall forward into the ground, and simply not rise. Would that be easier? Would it make everything stop hurting?
Instead, he snagged at branches and boughs, adding to the pile, glancing back towards the Flood at the inquiry. Not apt in descriptions, the beast sent a picture through the Attuned contortions, layers like a tangible image; of crimson hair and Fae wings, of diminutive size but not lacking in boldness or audacity.
The next question put a pause on his melancholy, arching a brow as his arms were loaded with sticks and twigs, carrying them over to the brush nearest his latest woodpile, split and stacked in another moment of frustration. “No.” What else pulsed and maddened now? “What does it entail?”
If only Deimos was so easily subdued. He moved along the field so that the weight of the world couldn’t quite catch him, so the earth below wouldn’t devour him, so he could find a balance along the precariousness of the looming void. It pulled and tugged, it scraped and chiseled, it wore and bore a cumbersome, overbearing, overwhelming decree along his spine, until he thought he might fall forward into the ground, and simply not rise. Would that be easier? Would it make everything stop hurting?
Instead, he snagged at branches and boughs, adding to the pile, glancing back towards the Flood at the inquiry. Not apt in descriptions, the beast sent a picture through the Attuned contortions, layers like a tangible image; of crimson hair and Fae wings, of diminutive size but not lacking in boldness or audacity.
The next question put a pause on his melancholy, arching a brow as his arms were loaded with sticks and twigs, carrying them over to the brush nearest his latest woodpile, split and stacked in another moment of frustration. “No.” What else pulsed and maddened now? “What does it entail?”
DEIMOS
