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12-25-2014, 06:12 AM
 The Reaper briefly remembered the strange appearance of the same turtle seasons before, gathered beneath a massive tree, carols crooning, masses growing, and standing along the sidelines, longing to investigate the peculiar, bizarre appearance (was it dangerous? Would it attack his herd? Was there something to fear, or destroy?), striving to remain on the outskirts. He’d thought he’d be ignored, desolate and isolated to examine and scrutinize the anomaly, but even then, the timber had stretched its massive arms and delivered him a gift (what it was, he couldn’t recall; but he’d been touched, just a little, just a smidgen, that he hadn’t been forgotten in the swarm, in the crowd). His son, however, was discovering it for the first time, and he followed him at a slow, methodical pace, distant and protective, a threatening plume surrounding and pervading, should anything seek out Erebos’ form and seek to damage the limber child. While his scion bounded, leaped, and became riveted amongst his companions, Deimos’ eyes roamed over the scene again and again, surveying the throng, the familiar (no surprise to see the Forsaken, or the bright, blue, screaming bird thing), and the unfamiliar, but once more, never dragging himself into their midst. For his brethren, his singular touch would mean death, and he held no intentions of destruction and ruin amidst the tinkling bells and the ornamental fray (there was too much happiness, too much glee, and it made him uncomfortable). Instead, he procured the pattern from the year past, and roamed on the fringes, away, but intrigued all the more.
DEIMOS
delivered from the blast
last from a line of lasts and now the kingdom comes crashing down undone |
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