Damien
the urge to disappear into the forest
and become local folklore
and become local folklore
“It has my vote… if that means anything,” Damien rumbled in support, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. Joke or not, the fire show had stuck in his head, and he wasn’t the sort to let go of a good image once it caught.
On the matter of hunting, he gave a low sound of agreement. “It certainly comes with its own risks,” he said, his tone steady but carrying the weight of lived experience. The long, frozen trails. The waiting. The not knowing if the thing stalking you had more hunger than you did. His gaze flicked toward Goose, then back to Iskra, and the corner of his mouth ticked up again. “Unlike whittling.” The playful glint in his eyes betrayed the jab, though there was no real sting in it. Truth be told, he’d taken a knife to wood more than once himself. It passed the hours. Smoothed out the edges of nights that might otherwise get too long, too quiet.
But small talk only stretched so far. At the mention of healing, Damien splayed his hands, the gesture plain. “No magic. I just bring brute strength.” A shrug followed, casual, though the truth of it sat like iron in his shoulders. “Probably for the best,” he agreed, of sticking to hand-to-hand, a rugged smile breaking through, amused.
Iskra angled himself like a man who’d learned the shape of a fight in training yards and lessons, carrying something formal in the way his weight shifted back, balanced and ready. Damien’s eyes tracked him, reading the posture, the careful placement of feet and hips. He didn’t mirror it. That wasn’t necessarily his way, not that he didn't respect the form. He’d never been taught the clean lines of a stance; his knowledge came from sudden fights in alleys, the snap-decisions of survival, from putting meat on the table and driving predators back with nothing but nerve and force.
He unshouldered his coat, the heavy fur-lined weight of it hitting the black sand with a muffled thud. The air gnawed at his arms through the thinner layer beneath, but that was fine. He wanted to feel it. Wanted the cold to bite as much as Iskra’s fists might.
Damien set his feet, not square, not precise—looser, coiled, like a man about to shoulder into a door. And with no more warning than a sharp breath, he moved, momentum carrying him forward in the first swing. No grace, no fancy step, just raw force meant to test the other man’s footing, to see if he could knock him off balance before either of them even got warmed up.
On the matter of hunting, he gave a low sound of agreement. “It certainly comes with its own risks,” he said, his tone steady but carrying the weight of lived experience. The long, frozen trails. The waiting. The not knowing if the thing stalking you had more hunger than you did. His gaze flicked toward Goose, then back to Iskra, and the corner of his mouth ticked up again. “Unlike whittling.” The playful glint in his eyes betrayed the jab, though there was no real sting in it. Truth be told, he’d taken a knife to wood more than once himself. It passed the hours. Smoothed out the edges of nights that might otherwise get too long, too quiet.
But small talk only stretched so far. At the mention of healing, Damien splayed his hands, the gesture plain. “No magic. I just bring brute strength.” A shrug followed, casual, though the truth of it sat like iron in his shoulders. “Probably for the best,” he agreed, of sticking to hand-to-hand, a rugged smile breaking through, amused.
Iskra angled himself like a man who’d learned the shape of a fight in training yards and lessons, carrying something formal in the way his weight shifted back, balanced and ready. Damien’s eyes tracked him, reading the posture, the careful placement of feet and hips. He didn’t mirror it. That wasn’t necessarily his way, not that he didn't respect the form. He’d never been taught the clean lines of a stance; his knowledge came from sudden fights in alleys, the snap-decisions of survival, from putting meat on the table and driving predators back with nothing but nerve and force.
He unshouldered his coat, the heavy fur-lined weight of it hitting the black sand with a muffled thud. The air gnawed at his arms through the thinner layer beneath, but that was fine. He wanted to feel it. Wanted the cold to bite as much as Iskra’s fists might.
Damien set his feet, not square, not precise—looser, coiled, like a man about to shoulder into a door. And with no more warning than a sharp breath, he moved, momentum carrying him forward in the first swing. No grace, no fancy step, just raw force meant to test the other man’s footing, to see if he could knock him off balance before either of them even got warmed up.
(Training 1/4)
