[DROP] Teine ​​is fortan

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Deimos had always devised control and precision – an implementation of authority, power, and dominion over his choices, his outlooks, his purposes, and his ambitions. He’d never relished anyone ever dictating his decisions, bristled against a higher authority no matter the occasion, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth, and left sedition and insurrection to settle into his bones. He presided and commanded himself, his actions were his own, and he’d readily admit if they were flawed or successful, victorious or disastrous; owned their scruples and judgments. But this evening, the chill spiraled through his feet and moved his limbs, made them wayward, brushed against his senses until they seemed dull, cooled into a stupor. He followed plumes of mist and fog at the edge of his vision, out of reach, out of touch, out of order, hands lifting to catch the distorting labyrinth, incapable of doing anything else but following. Had he been in his right state, the Reaper would’ve been vexed, exasperated, completely, utterly contemptuous at being led astray, down paths he’d never seen, down ledges and streams and ruins he’d never crossed. The fire danced in his eyes though, and a series of sounds and memories split upon his form - Father? he nearly called out into the midnight tendrils, the coiling embers, the dazzling, radiating bliss of wrath and flames, as if the great beacon of his life were standing amidst the columns of timber, basking in ghosts and warrens. Something else shifted beyond his sight though, and he twisted, turned, over stones and rubble, boulders and roots, desperate to cling to the broadening siren song. He couldn’t place the shadows, he couldn’t figure out the silhouettes, the wraiths refraining in the twilight, haunting shells, but he yearned to, reaching, reaching, reaching – Then it spun apart and away, and he was standing in a copse, hardly alone. Others were calling, asking why they’d been called, some bizarre summoning, and he glanced around and around, silent, grave, perplexed. How? Why? The confusion spiraled, clawed against his mind, until all the machinations seethed, simmered, a torment in his consternation; piercing stare taking in Lily, in Wessex, in Remi, and if they’d suddenly all been snared, trapped in a devious web of firelight and unsung stanzas. the last of a line of lasts