soldier boy
Icarus would never dare to presume he knows the Warden better than any other soldier, despite his numerous years in the company, despite the oftentimes nearly friendly way he spoke to his imposing commander. Icarus would swear up and down the man was his superior in command, nothing more, and certainly not a mentor or a role model. But, as Deimos speaks to the company, voice patient and analyzing, the young soldier swears the man is fishing. They are, after all, lined up in front of recently rejuvenated trebuchets, fingers itching to pull some levers and see how much damage they can do. It’s a rather straightforward thing he’s looking for someone to do; send a rock flying, smash it into the enemy, cheer and whoop as it bursts into a million pieces.
He can feel that consensus spreading through the collected company, some smart enough to pick up what Deimos was maybe hinting at, and some also filled with a deep desire to hurdle rocks at unknown things to see what would happen. Someone will speak up soon, and Deimos will turn his fiery gaze on them and give that short nod that means his quiet satisfaction.
Icarus is, by nature, on the quieter side. His contributions are steady hands, a quiet murmur of assurance, a comforting touch on a shoulder and a bandage given to cover a wound. In his own quiet, subtle way, he volunteers for missions by stepping forwards with a soft raise of his hand, asks if he may prove himself, and argues his frustration point by point with a subtle flash of steel when Deimos inevitably tries to push him away from danger. But, as the plant-thing rotates in front of the company, Icarus aches for the burn of an approving gaze.
With a bold, soft step, he breaks the line and moves forward, asking, "Sir, may I?" With a flick of his wrist, he conjures up a lithe and spinning rope of water and send it shooting towards the floating plant, adjusting his gaze right before it hits so he can study Deimos' reaction to whatever large and likely violent thing is about to occur.
He can feel that consensus spreading through the collected company, some smart enough to pick up what Deimos was maybe hinting at, and some also filled with a deep desire to hurdle rocks at unknown things to see what would happen. Someone will speak up soon, and Deimos will turn his fiery gaze on them and give that short nod that means his quiet satisfaction.
Icarus is, by nature, on the quieter side. His contributions are steady hands, a quiet murmur of assurance, a comforting touch on a shoulder and a bandage given to cover a wound. In his own quiet, subtle way, he volunteers for missions by stepping forwards with a soft raise of his hand, asks if he may prove himself, and argues his frustration point by point with a subtle flash of steel when Deimos inevitably tries to push him away from danger. But, as the plant-thing rotates in front of the company, Icarus aches for the burn of an approving gaze.
With a bold, soft step, he breaks the line and moves forward, asking, "Sir, may I?" With a flick of his wrist, he conjures up a lithe and spinning rope of water and send it shooting towards the floating plant, adjusting his gaze right before it hits so he can study Deimos' reaction to whatever large and likely violent thing is about to occur.
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
