Permafrost Hollows but you're just a black hole

the firekissed titan steps over the spilled contents of the small collection — over the rabbit skin the silencer worked to dry, over the spidersilk extracted with a stick and painted across the fur where it stuck in parts, broken strands writhing against the low breeze; careless. the silencer retreats a few more steps, counting solemnly in his head. one, two, three, four, five. five steps away from what he has gathered; unable to hide the viperine grin that has taken shelter upon his lips.

though arduous to collect nothing there was worth losing his life over. frustration penetrates amusement for the briefest of moments. back to literal square one. and yet ...and yet he cannot keep the low snort from expelling from his nostrils. does the titan even know what he stands over? so possessive? does he know that it could bring plague? death in too much quantities? it was fear and it was power and it was ...work. work and hours and travel wasted.

and then silence broken — do you even know what you guard so jealously? frustration rears its head again. he cares but he does not care; how bothersome. if they are yours what are you going to do with them? a tactic born of his own wrath and greed; of desperation and annoyance. yes, he was too close to their claim gathering what deadly artifices the land had to offer but still. what use did they have for someone who did not know how to nurture them?