Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
If Deimos noticed the trepidation in the young soldier, he didn’t say anything about it. He’d held that age-old apprehension himself many times, but it couldn’t exist on the battlefield. Not when lives were on the line and devastation rankled at every turn. It was why practice was important; to funnel the nerves into muscle memory, to let the senses be overridden by purpose and maneuvers. No warrior could tremble in place, hoping something would go well. They needed to have the ability to conduct it wholly on their own.He answered Icarus’s determined nod with one of his own, stepping back and away to watch. The rest of the constituents did the same, all waiting for their opportunity – eyes cast as the lever was pulled and the stone flew. It cracked into the edifice with an audible distinction and a dent into its side, and there were a few raucous cheers and pats on the back extended to their compatriot. “Good,” the Sword supplied with a grin, before his eyes went towards the next, inclining his head and ensuring spots were rotated through. "Once we finish it off, I can increase the difficulty."
The subsequent whining surrounding the statement didn’t seem to diminish the amusements though; bright eyes and faces as they faced down the unmoving target. The Sword surveyed and witnessed, eternally scrutinizing, offering pointers and suggestions as they all maneuvered through. “I think we should use fire next,” he rumbled to Icarus, if only to see if it unnerved or emboldened.
