[Training] against the tide

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts There was no need to rescue anyone today either, no sooner had Deimos’ call rang out over the rush of the current, than Ronin answered back, responding that he was fine. The warrior shrugged then, intending to meander his way down the river and explore a little more, curious and intrigued by thousands of other questions and nuances floating along the expanse. He wanted to know about the lay of the land, where snares were kept, what dangers lurked within crag and copse, but Ronin continued, proffering explanations for his present state. Testing himself against the Stonesong? The beast’s eyes lingered back along the rushing, rolling river, how it bit into rocks and embankments, scoured and scourged, how it plagued and washed away all synapses and senses. Long before, when lives weren’t entirely tragic and diminishing, he’d roared beside rocks and cliffs, howled like the ocean waves. He’d run across moonlit tides and sunk beneath its horizon, grinning and bold, chasing pockets of light and secrets of rocks, rubble, the ebb, and the glow, of potent, powerful clarity. He’d listened to the stupor, the tunes, of the water and its babbling lifeforce, its ichor, its surface, become enraptured and entangled by it. Then, when everything fell away, he avoided it; a recollection of misery rather than the once powerful symbol of its majesty and domination. His father had been fire, but his mother had been water, the sagacity, the wisdom, the calm, unperturbed vision of control. He’d loved the rain, then the sun – all the elements touching and stoking the aspirations, the ambitions, suddenly curling over his flesh and bones. It’d been so long since he’d swam beyond anything but his own flaws and defects, struggling to surface, to breathe, when he’d drowned in the weight of his miseries and melancholies. The brooding had lifted lately – and so he wondered if he should venture back out into those thunderous reaches, where the tide could pull him over and drag him to the bottom. Or where he could triumph, strong and enduring, reminding the world just who they were dealing with. He considered, he calculated, gaze riveted on the outcrops, the rocks, all the underlying threats. Then he grinned, a minatory, menacing upheaval of a smile that suggested vigilance, violence, and that Ronin might regret the invitation; eager and ready to overcome a legion of demons bellowing in his skull. “Sure.” Because he wanted to train, because he wanted to be stronger, because he wanted each and every realm to see him and know, understand, that he was not to be trifled with. He stripped and left his clothing along the bank, completely, utterly confident in his figure, before diving in, remembering the feel of the water along his muscles, the chill clawing its way over his form and he just didn’t give a damn, grinning again when he resurfaced near Ronin. “What is the best way to conquer it?” the last of a line of lasts