Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
The warning in her voice had barely faded before the wind hit. It slammed into the branch with a force that rattled his shoulders, the wood groaning against the pressure. He’d angled it to break the gust across his side rather than take it full in the chest, but even then, the sheer push of it sent his boots skidding over packed snow. A lesser stance and he’d have been flat on his back.
He gritted his teeth and used the momentum, letting the wind carry him a half-step sideways before planting his lead foot and driving forward. The branch acted like a plow, part shield, part balance point, the bristles of snow swirling off its bark as he pushed into the gale. His eyes narrowed against the sting of ice in the air, his breath puffing in short bursts.
He shifted his weight, aiming for a feint to the left before cutting in to the right, the branch still angled in front of him. His movement wasn’t quick—his bulk simply didn’t allow for it—but it was controlled, deliberate, each stride meant to eat up distance without giving her the room to spin up another full-force strike.
The snow underfoot betrayed him once, boot slipping just enough to throw off his rhythm. He caught himself on the branch, using it to lever his weight back upright before circling to keep her in view. “That all you’ve got?” he called, his voice more grit than taunt, the kind of challenge meant to see if she’d push harder.
He could already feel the strain in his calves from keeping steady against her first blow, but that was its own point for him—learning to move under pressure without toppling. And if he could corner her, even briefly, maybe he’d find the gap in her offense before the next blast came.
He gritted his teeth and used the momentum, letting the wind carry him a half-step sideways before planting his lead foot and driving forward. The branch acted like a plow, part shield, part balance point, the bristles of snow swirling off its bark as he pushed into the gale. His eyes narrowed against the sting of ice in the air, his breath puffing in short bursts.
He shifted his weight, aiming for a feint to the left before cutting in to the right, the branch still angled in front of him. His movement wasn’t quick—his bulk simply didn’t allow for it—but it was controlled, deliberate, each stride meant to eat up distance without giving her the room to spin up another full-force strike.
The snow underfoot betrayed him once, boot slipping just enough to throw off his rhythm. He caught himself on the branch, using it to lever his weight back upright before circling to keep her in view. “That all you’ve got?” he called, his voice more grit than taunt, the kind of challenge meant to see if she’d push harder.
He could already feel the strain in his calves from keeping steady against her first blow, but that was its own point for him—learning to move under pressure without toppling. And if he could corner her, even briefly, maybe he’d find the gap in her offense before the next blast came.
(Training 1/4)
