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 glittering air cut toward him, the sharp sweep of it aimed straight at his legs. Damien’s eyes tracked the movement, reading the arc before it fully formed, and he reacted on instinct. Instead of planting the branch as a barrier, he crouched low, sliding his weight back and twisting to the side. The scythe of wind whipped past his shins, scattering a flurry of snow in its wake.
He rolled forward over the compacted snow, using the slide to reposition, letting the momentum carry him just past her reach. The branch, still in hand, became a guiding tool rather than a shield, tapping the icy ground to stabilize each uneven step. A quick pivot planted him at a new angle, forcing him to circle around her instead of closing directly.
“You're fast,” he admitted, voice low, half to himself, half to her. His eyes didn’t leave her, watching how she balanced on her toes, how her arms traced the air like a conductor. Each movement was a lesson in predicting timing, in learning to compensate for what he lacked in speed with patience and positioning.
He spotted the tiniest shift in her balance, a flicker of overextension as she reached for another arc of wind (or whatever other magic or tricks she may have up her sleeve). Damien lunged, branch outstretched—not to strike, but to try and tap her shoulder, a “tag” in this game of cat and mouse.
He rolled forward over the compacted snow, using the slide to reposition, letting the momentum carry him just past her reach. The branch, still in hand, became a guiding tool rather than a shield, tapping the icy ground to stabilize each uneven step. A quick pivot planted him at a new angle, forcing him to circle around her instead of closing directly.
“You're fast,” he admitted, voice low, half to himself, half to her. His eyes didn’t leave her, watching how she balanced on her toes, how her arms traced the air like a conductor. Each movement was a lesson in predicting timing, in learning to compensate for what he lacked in speed with patience and positioning.
He spotted the tiniest shift in her balance, a flicker of overextension as she reached for another arc of wind (or whatever other magic or tricks she may have up her sleeve). Damien lunged, branch outstretched—not to strike, but to try and tap her shoulder, a “tag” in this game of cat and mouse.
(Training 2/4)
