[Seasonal Event] stitch away from making it

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Making light of a horrendous situation might not have been the best thing to do – but Deimos had long since lost any sense of modicums or proprieties. Atrocities had been terrifying, horrifying, and voracious enough without having to relive them; they still managed to shuffle their way to the forefront of his nightmares with alarming frequency, regardless of how often he tried to push them away. He was cold, indifferent, and reticent a majority of the time, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel, didn’t recall, didn’t remember the bitterness, the sorrows, the aches, and the anguish. Long Night stained and eroded over his carefully sculpted apathy just as easily as the rest of his life – rancorous and clawing, a biting, tearing, scalding scythe bearing its way down his spine, over his shoulders, through his ligaments and bones. “Is that all?” He jested, tones audibly jocular, arching a brow at her again as she recalled the intensity of the eternal evenings, tugging against a stuck piece of debris curled under a rock during the entire process. The beast didn’t have to imagine the imagery Lily laid out in the air – some monsters lurked in the cauldron of Stygian contortions, and had made themselves very clear. It was never fear that got to him, never a sensation of the hair rising over the back of his neck, the trepidation, the dread, or the alarm; he’d picked away at those emotions on the battlefield, where no one had any time to contemplate a single nuance. It was after, the results, the unease, the discarded patriots who’d been friends, who’d been comrades, who’d been brothers in arms, fighting for a common cause, fighting against a common foe, and witnessing their slaughter. Like they’d been nothing. Had the lady been something, out there, inviting the inevitable? He might’ve avoided the treachery of Long Night at all, had he not gained friends and allies again, had he kept to himself, had he simply coiled his way back into the darker threads. She asked over his experiences next, and he swallowed down the noxious bile suddenly threatening to lance his tongue. For the majority of the time, he’d done just that, sinking into the recesses of the Rathskeller and avoiding anyone and anything; until Edrei’s screams had echoed from behind the door and he’d found Amalia, lifeless, in her arms. He’d seen them all buried again, over and over again, one by one, nestled in their makeshift graveyards and catacombs, silent, gone. His tones were less impish, less devilish, worn back into their old slate once more, deeper, losing the amused intonations. “I witnessed someone be brought to life.” The Reaper finally plucked the garbage from beneath the sturdy, behemoth stone and didn’t say how much the image had burned inside him. He didn’t mention the apprehension, the shaking of his fingers, the cursed memories brewing beneath the surface. He didn’t allude to the disquiet and unease. He folded it back into his mind and let it flicker apart; doomed to return once more in the collection of his melancholy. So while Lily seemed to defy, to survive, he pressed inward – eroded, crumbled, and seethed. master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Lily