[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center]
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[center][color=seagreen]Perhaps I will disappear one day
Like a deer's tracks in the forest.
Once I have wasted everything
I was to account for in earnest.

Then I will find my home
In the ground, where my name
Will be written on stone
Amidst cold candles' flame.

When I look back, what will I see?
Will I think my life in vain?
Will they make a fool of me?
Will I think my death in vain?

Or will I look at this world dreamily?
The pretty springs, pretty summers
The warmth of fireplace and family
Will I wish them on others?

I have felt my life's frailty
This broken, feeble frame
Gave my soul no safety
And my mind no acclaim.

Yet here I stand, here I sing
I sing 'til I'm out of breath.
This is my way to bring
Life, and keep away Death.[/color]

—Daimyon Londe: ‘On Death. Dedicated to A. J.’[/center]

Daimyon waited, then waited some more. His body and his mind had got thoroughly disconnected: the former was stuck in some sort of feverish half-hunch, grasping onto the lute like a bloody sword, while the latter was speeding ahead, imagining the countless ways the confrontation with the murderous robot could go, each scenario more fantastical than the last. None of them seemed to become reality, however, and as the seconds ticked by painfully, the poet was starting to grow suspicious. Had his foe simply failed to find him? Or, heavens forbid, was she standing in the break room, cannon primed and hungry for blood? Initially, Daimyon did not want to fancy his chances, but he was only getting more anxious by the minute and he feared that a heart attack might put an abrupt end to his second flush of youth.

Reining in his own thoughts, he first looked out the open doorway, ready to get his head blown off—the fact that the realisation that no such blast came even registered in his mind was a pleasant surprise. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped outside. His heart skipped a beat when he thought he had heard something, but his alarm was for naught. The break room was empty and silent; the only noise filtering in came from somewhere more distant. He opened the room's door—only to find the corridor empty—and his attention soon turned back towards the hospital area where he had fled from. That was, undoubtedly, where the sounds originated. They were the sounds of battle, of fierce fighting, perhaps the pivotal point of this nefarious night.

Willow must have abandoned chasing him to take the fight to the rest of the Infinites, Daimyon thought. His distraction had failed, and while he was still alive and unharmed, he felt guilty about making the already perilous odds even worse for his peers on the attacking team. His heart drew him back towards the action, but the self-conservative instinct sounded alarm after alarm in his head. Chances were, all the fighting was concentrated in the hospital, so if he was to move in the opposite direction, he could sit out the whole thing. He had already done what he could—it was not much, but there was little use of him going back into the fray now. He would have only weighed the rest of the team down. He believed in them to be able to handle the situation and took off towards the corridor that led to the resort, away from all this mess.

Then he stopped. Was it like him to hide cowardly and leave his friends to fend for themselves? Was it like the Infinite Poet to shy away from even deadly danger?

Perhaps it was. But not anymore! He turned around and looked back towards the hospital. The noise was quietening down; if he wanted to make an impact, he would have to act now. And act he did with new resolve, running back into the fight.

Only there was no fight to speak of anymore. Daimyon's heart sank as he slowly looked over the scene of a battle just finished. A man—he could not care less who—announced the end of the Night of Carnage through the monitors and the Carnage Sisters departed. The Infinites were victorious, but at what cost? The poet shuddered to think. How Pyrrhic was this victory?

The silence was only momentary; it may never have been real. But in that one moment, the picture burned into Daimyon's mind and crystallised into a still that transcended the current situation. A crying woman hunched over the motionless body of a little girl, her cracked voice telling a story of grief and denial. A man channelling his anger into vicious strikes on an already defeated foe. On the sidelines were others, some injured, their expressions ranging from disbelief to overbearing sadness, to even relief and acceptance.

Then, time restarted. The faceless archetypes became flesh and blood people again, the poet's peers and allies. The carnage might have been over, but the aftermath promised to be no less intense.
[color=seagreen]“Oh, my lord...”[/color] Daimyon muttered, standing still for a good few seconds. Once his shock had subsided however, he sprung to help. Or at least he wanted to, but there was one question: where was he to start?