#backdated a little

You’d like nothing more than to go back to sleep - you feel wrung out, but still wired, and someone won’t turn himself off. To say you can feel what Deadeye is, well, is a vast understatement, he’s like a sun way too close, stabbing down through your eyes.

You feel like you need sunglasses, indoors, half the city away from him. It’s greatly irritating, itches in all the pleasant ways your kismesis can manage just by being. You grunt in annoyance as you tug at reality, step out of your house and into Deadeye’s garden. You’re ready to curse a storm into being, but all your words pile up behind your teeth and die quick, agonizing deaths.

The fucking gall of the situation. His body may be normal, if you ignore the way his eyes blaze and the shimmering of his halo, but you see the wings and the gold, the perfection of Divinity.

You seethe out in the sands, an entire world between you and your city, where your anger would be disastrous. The storm clouds churn above you, black and purple, spit great arcs of green-tinged lightning to the ground. The sand around you begins to liquefy under the enormous pressure and heat, the snarling roar of green flames, all of it tugged into a whirling vortex of crude glass and hell.

Space folds around you between one breath and the next, Bawd’s home becoming solid and real around you. It is emptier for her absence, but you you don’t miss the odd presence beginning to fill it already.

Deep breath. Bawd is completely capable of taking care of herself, and there’s no signs of struggle. She’s fine, but elsewhere. Grey magic, most like, but that’s not the only possibility. You draw a knife out of habit, and clear your throat.