{se} platinum canary blues

Deimos

Despite those primitive features coiled and contorted through his bones, the Sword remained still, the urgency to run and rampage sent to brim and brew underneath muscle and sinew. He pulled back only slightly to watch the alterations in expressions, piercing gaze nonetheless regaled by the happiness in her voice, in the restlessness between clutched hands. Quiet and observant, he parsed through the layers of potentials and settled on shields, on protections; an inquiry already settling on his tongue, intending and eager to ask, but watching the rapid plumes and the eagerness unfurl along her frame, he delayed the sentiments for another. “And how do you feel?” Because it was a complicated matter, one he was well aware of, to be ignored for so long, to eventually grow unsettled at the notions of shrines and furtiveness of deities, at the complexities intermingled when striving to achieve and be seen, be noticed, be heard – and finally snagging at all of it together. Sometimes there were embittered emblems. Sometimes it was simply relief, confusion, or combinations of the emotions riddling and rankling souls.

Head tilting vaguely, his mouth rested on her hairline for a moment, brows furrowed in contemplation. “What were you asked to do?” He considered the Nature aspects of Frey to be reliable and fair, especially given everything they’d designated for Halo, but curiosity always curled its way back to the forefront. As for the timing wise, he too had things to accomplish and settle, and with purpose-driven aspects of his steadfast, determined haze, Deimos believed them wholly capable of achievement before the season ended. “You still have time.”

it's not the waking, it's the rising
It's the fire it ignites