wound relentlessly

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The rush of movement caught his predatory gaze, and for a moment, he was entirely still, silent, without time to crouch or bend into the scenery. He was one more monolith in the sprigs and rime, collected, ready for the gamble. He wouldn’t have time to reach for his bow or the arrows residing in his quiver, and so he remained patient, calm, a composition of raptorial predilection. He might have a chance, an opportunity, lanced into the foundations of luck and kismet, but they’d never been entirely on his side; abandoned, forsaken, bits and pieces taken away from him before they’d even been cherished, noted, noticed. Then, the strangest things happened, coincide, blend and blur together in keen, brusque strokes, no explanation given or extended. Before he had any other opportunity to gather his wits, the rush of feathers descended upon the incoming fawn (a child, he reasoned, and realized he never would’ve attempted to maul the youth), and he thought it was doomed, damned, claimed by another hunter. It would’ve made more sense than the proceeding events, for no sooner had the talons embarked and asserted their dominance, then the vulture transformed. The Reaper had been witness to many things in his life: fiends, cretins, humans born virtuous and subsequently crawling into demonic madness, enchantments chiseling into the earth, fire bursting from another’s hands, but a conversion from animal to human wasn’t among them. He stood there, eyes widened, motionless, likely looking completely ridiculous in his stunned manifestation. Truthfully, he wouldn’t even need to try to push forward in this scenario. The bafflement molded and melded itself straight into interest and inquisitiveness; a study, a perusal, in enchantments and invocations. “Impressive,” Deimos finally managed to respond. The tone hadn’t been flat or a lie; he had been amazed and astonished once the shock wore away; his machinations and calculations began curling and coiling in his skull almost instantly. His gaze went from the deer, not dead, carried off or marred at all (a companion, perhaps?), and back to the woman. He loosened a breath he didn’t notice he’d been holding through the entire, bizarre scene, and then finally moved, muscles begging to maneuver amidst the restless enigmas, advancing a few steps through avid curiosity and intrigue. “How do you accomplish such a feat?” master of nothing place of recoil and grace

Kiada