maybe rage will lift me up

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

The Sword had known greed and avarice. Perhaps not as a dragon, but as a man, human and mortal and ravenous in his disposition. Not for power, but for might, for strength, for endurance, for perseverance, to hold the line, to force his way through, anything and everything that dared destroy what he cherished. A guard, a pillar, a monolith against the void, against the world, and he’d never been enough. As much as he’d tried, endeavored, and attempted to keep those beloved within his grasp, to not let them yield into the hollowed reaches, to not let them flicker and bleed away into shells and vessels he couldn’t reach, it’d happened anyway. Precious filaments, treasures had been in his heart, in his soul, and he had very few left. They were gone, and he was here, and the world without them was all the more tragic and overwhelming.

He’d rise again or fall apart, and some days it was hard to puzzle through which would occur.

Something worth it caused him to snort as he lifted another basket, as his jaw clenched, as more plans seemed to fall to disarray and the unknown. “I am not certain I will be fortunate at all.” With anything. “But I can cause a distraction.” Damage, demolition, destruction; that he’d always known well. A shrug to his shoulders, a shake of his head, and it was all he had remaining in him. “I will give it more thought. Deepfrost comes first.” With its own set of trials and tribulations.

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