[SWE] It ends in fire

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He was not normally drawn to the light; his preference manifested in the gloom, where the rest of the world left him alone to brood, wither, and decay. It worked for him now and again, easy to lie in wait for the next disaster, for the next ruin, aligned eerily in the eldritch confines – but every so often his piercing gaze tilted towards luminescence, towards brightness, the shine, the radiance, the flare of brilliance, and wondered how it was achieved, obtained, and if he even had a chance. Maybe the opportunities had fizzled away, shaking their heads at his animosity and acrimony, at his inability to do anything but erode. Perhaps he was too far gone, and any of his speculation was too late, spent and drained away from his hollowed vessel, another ghost dragging its chains. But the flames rippled across the skies, ignited the heavens, and the beast wondered if they were to be caught ablaze, to be burned to ashes, to be sent back into embers and coals. The depths of his gaze caught the flickers, the outreach, the emboldened, audacious spread of fire and light, and remembered souls born to be infernos, bold and intrepid from the moment they took their first breath to their last. Father, he almost whispered – but he knew it wasn’t Ignatius. There would’ve been buoyant, wild laughter. There would’ve been ferocious, savage exuberance, a force untamed, unbound, unleashed upon the world. As he tipped his head though, studied, followed the mercurial, tempestuous individuals and essences, ducked his skull against the warm wash of combustion and luster, there had been something freed, liberated, sparking and smoldering against the darker traces of the void. But as he stood there, behind the gathering, murmuring crowd, he waited to be eradicated in the ferocity of its existence: beautiful and incandescent, seemingly above all others, beyond the gods and goddesses, the traces of deities and demons alike. He was unworthy in the beacon’s presence, yet, like the rest, granted himself the instance to be bathed in some form of Elysium. The Reaper’s gaze riveted from one inhabitant to the other, gauging their reactions, pleased to see some others again, (living, breathing) Amalia and triumphant Rory, those that had accomplished the tasks set before them, those that held significant meaning to the light reigning over them. He didn’t approach any; wasn’t deserving of the merit, but settled for a content, quiet smile across his lips, arms crossed over his chest as a haven, a refuge, seemed to finally spark into the ominous procession. master of nothing place of recoil and grace