Deimos
Endings or beginnings, and the Sword would like to think there were both settling on the horizons. Genesis of days not spent in terror, horror, or apprehension, where the very scales of possibility tipped so low and ghoulish; unfurling in rapid succession of things that could be. A close to hours spent in infamy and hells, and ensuing days, months, seasons, where change didn’t come from war, famine, or bloodshed, but the resolutions and plans of prosperous and preferable highlights.
Teasing and mocking seemed to go with those notions, hand in hand.
Her response caused an immediate scoffing and snorting. “If that were true, then I would certainly have more,” with an indignant and boyish wrinkle to his nose, head tilting, seeing how quickly either of them could rise to the occasion. His were made on clear pretenses, since both knew he had no taste for arrogance. Stretching out one leg, he intentionally bumped his foot into her thigh, all the more irritating. “Better looking, maybe.”
Teasing and mocking seemed to go with those notions, hand in hand.
Her response caused an immediate scoffing and snorting. “If that were true, then I would certainly have more,” with an indignant and boyish wrinkle to his nose, head tilting, seeing how quickly either of them could rise to the occasion. His were made on clear pretenses, since both knew he had no taste for arrogance. Stretching out one leg, he intentionally bumped his foot into her thigh, all the more irritating. “Better looking, maybe.”
it's not the waking, it's the rising
It's the fire it ignites
It's the fire it ignites
