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Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The Reaper had stepped back as the crowd began to grow; not bothered by the notion that his mere touch could incapacitate a stranger (if they were too foolish, too inept, too stupid, incapable of feeling the lengths of his potent, unholy power, then perhaps they deserved a swift death, the puncture of calamity, the rifling of barbarity), but to the discomfort of so many nearby. He nodded to his son, who lingered closer and closer to his companions, and otherwise wore his same, nonchalant expression, struggling to understand the meaning of goodwill and fair fortune. Peace and repose had never been on his list of things to attempt – but his years spent ruling and governing had molded some form of armistice in him, so that he’d spent hours working on treaties instead of stages of war, delegating tasks rendered by merchants instead of striking down an opponent. It was an itch in the back of his mind, that horrific, treacherous notion of slashing through an enemy’s chest, of condemning, of consuming, of devouring another soul until they took their final breath – but not today. His ears twitched, turned, as the Giving Turtle spoke, fostering a sense of tranquility that Deimos would never be able to muster. He gave into the temptation again, gazing over at the items, the lights, the utter, serene sentiment of composure, and then to the Turtle itself, proffering a bow of his great skull, of his tired, weary, heavy crown, and then watched the rest of the world become enshrouded in the blaze of fixating snow.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
