soldier boy
The company erupted into excited titters at the prospect of not only a competition, but a competition with a prize at the end. Morning patrol duty was one of those awful necessary evils that was exactly miserable enough to make it a dreaded chore, and any opportunity to beg off and sit in the indoor warmth instead was perhaps the most luscious, juicy carrot at the end of a stick Deimos could offer. Icarus, for all his discipline and ability to shrug off even the most abysmal of duties with a determination that made even the oldest soldiers wary of his drive, feels the burn of competition begin to flicker into his fingers, replacing the beginning stages of frostbite. Like all the other cold, chattering members of the company, he wants to skip out on that early-morning slog through the biting wind and snow; but more than that, he wants to win. That fire in him, kindling slowly but surely, awakened earlier by Deimos' questions, the one that wishes to roar and show everyone he was more than just the orphan boy soldier with nowhere else to go, begins to creep up inside him. The task overwhelms him so completely, narrowing his vision and focusing his hands that he doesn't even scoff or toss an easy grin at Deimos when the man, predictably, starts lighting things on fire.
He turns to the two soldiers next to him and with a pointed, determined look, focuses on their trebuchet. The three of them, longtime allies if not necessarily friends, are used to falling into the easy camaraderie required for a focused, physically demanding task. Icarus focuses his nimble, strategic mind on figuring out precisely how they need to aim the huge thing, using what he learned of the trajectory from that first test run with the dragon. He murmurs confirmations, and after receiving an excited nod from each of his two trebuchet partners, his wrists twist with the conjuring of water magic. Twisting tendrils of frigid, spinning vines move to adjust the trebuchet, faster and stronger than human hands could move it, and it almost feels like cheating if the taste of ambition wasn't so strong in the back of his throat.
The first stone fires, smashing into the water elemental, and Icarus' two parts let out a cheer of victory. Icarus doesn't, though, too zoned in like a dog chasing a scent and his magic is already adjusting the aim for the next one. His partners, tasting his wild ambition and alright beginning to revel in tomorrow morning's hearth, quickly join him, and the well-oiled unit of three hurls the next stone at the ursur. It hits it precisely on the head, and this time, there is no celebration as the three moves for the final target. They're one thing one, one person, one soldier, and when Icarus wrests down the lever for the last stone, he holds his breath as it sails--
--Landing in the center of the frost giant just a single moment after another group's.
Disappointment burns the back of his throat, vivid and raw like bile, but he claps his hands anyway and congratulates his unit on a job well done. Second is still second-most-accomplished, even if it means they'll still have to go trudging through the snow tomorrow. Even if it means Deimos' unreadable, wild face will turn on another as he congratulates them on a job well done.
He turns to the two soldiers next to him and with a pointed, determined look, focuses on their trebuchet. The three of them, longtime allies if not necessarily friends, are used to falling into the easy camaraderie required for a focused, physically demanding task. Icarus focuses his nimble, strategic mind on figuring out precisely how they need to aim the huge thing, using what he learned of the trajectory from that first test run with the dragon. He murmurs confirmations, and after receiving an excited nod from each of his two trebuchet partners, his wrists twist with the conjuring of water magic. Twisting tendrils of frigid, spinning vines move to adjust the trebuchet, faster and stronger than human hands could move it, and it almost feels like cheating if the taste of ambition wasn't so strong in the back of his throat.
The first stone fires, smashing into the water elemental, and Icarus' two parts let out a cheer of victory. Icarus doesn't, though, too zoned in like a dog chasing a scent and his magic is already adjusting the aim for the next one. His partners, tasting his wild ambition and alright beginning to revel in tomorrow morning's hearth, quickly join him, and the well-oiled unit of three hurls the next stone at the ursur. It hits it precisely on the head, and this time, there is no celebration as the three moves for the final target. They're one thing one, one person, one soldier, and when Icarus wrests down the lever for the last stone, he holds his breath as it sails--
--Landing in the center of the frost giant just a single moment after another group's.
Disappointment burns the back of his throat, vivid and raw like bile, but he claps his hands anyway and congratulates his unit on a job well done. Second is still second-most-accomplished, even if it means they'll still have to go trudging through the snow tomorrow. Even if it means Deimos' unreadable, wild face will turn on another as he congratulates them on a job well done.
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
