[seasonal event] should have seen this coming

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Debts and obligations were a frequent occurrence, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a favor for a favor; his were often more stoked in blood than safety, liberation, and deliverance. Apparently a story wasn’t worth the safeguarding from their time with the fire woman, which cast him with an arched brow, a snort, a nod. It was considerate of Ianto to not mark and scratch these scattered moments and intrigues off his list – demands fulfilled, prices paid– when Deimos had been close to ripping pieces of either human or forest apart. But he breathed a little easier, took the information and legends for what they were worth. “I am not kind,” he declared, a little rogue endeavor caught in his piercing eyes, a joke on the refrains of impish incandescence and the looming forest beckoning him, closer and closer still to taking back friends, allies, comrades, things he cherished. “See you then.” He nodded again, as if the pact was still bound, midnight festivals a tenuous, tremulous possibility when the rest of the copses threatened to devour, swallow, condemn, and ruin. The Reaper witnessed the man shift back into the beast again, dashing into the undergrowth, and took it as his cue – he had planning and actions to manifest, paths to traverse, Fae to understand, know, and kin to liberate; stretching his long strides back from where he’d arrived, intending to come back the following morning, fervent, ready, to catch flame. the last of a line of lasts