[Seasonal Event] stitch away from making it

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The silence clung in the spring particles, drew its breath along scabbards and ruin, and he simply became another part of it. Ghosts and catacombs clung to the ramparts, to the wooden columns, to the shades of boughs that had once been on fire – singed and charred, mere broken players and parts from another span of time. Would they be remembered, acknowledged, by the time Deepfrost reigned again? Would they be replaced, carved back into formation by newer timber, by more flesh and blood? Would the Spark Bird ever return – rumors and myths had speculated it wouldn’t have ventured there again, yet, it had flown and sizzled before their eyes. What was the prompting? The deaths? The shadows? The darkness? He mulled over anything and everything in the spaces between light and shadow, picking up more and more debris, tugging the sled behind. At some moments, he ventured away from the objects to grab hold of more trash, hovering along the lines of emboldened, smoking cinders and layers of lingering rubbish, hauling larger waste over, until a voice caught him. The Reaper hadn’t heard her – too absorbed in his task and meticulous notions, but he maneuvered a mask over his surprise, over the quick, swift turn, predator muscles and sinew bunching, coiling, ready for a strike that wasn’t coming. “Morning, Lily,” he returned with a look that could’ve been considered indifferent, were it not for the arch of his brow, the humor around his mouth. Perhaps that’s how they should all greet one another from now on - I see you’re still alive - as if it was a shock to see friends and acquaintances after the veils, the shrouds, and the treacheries were lifted. Was this how these people lived, expecting some of their allies and kin to not resurface after the stretched out evening? Was this normalcy? And what could be done about it, other than to suffer, combat, or wallow through its living anguish? “Same to you,” he proffered back, line made short of a chuckle. The warrior reached into his sled and tossed her a pair of gloves he’d left within, before returning back to his diligent work. Deimos crossed back over long, wavering grass, bending down to pick apart edges and seams of junk and remains from crossed over tresses and blades; lifting his head and throwing them into the deep center of the sled. Only after a few extended seconds, for it took him that long to contemplate anything to say, he provided an inquiry. “What horrors did you see?” The arch of his brow was back, the layers of impishness nestled in the tone of his voice; meant to be a sanction of dark humor in place of all the melancholy, all the terrors, all the monstrous iniquities drenching the world. master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Lily