who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Reaper, the mountain, the blade, the soldier frequently dabbled in the art of patience. He waited, he watched, he tended to musings and sentiments, to thoughts in the quiet calamity, always striving a way to concoct a better means to an end, a better measure for a snare, for a trap, or for achievement and success. Stoicism and restraint towards Sascha, not reacting to the flare for the dramatic, to the sunshine and effervescence, and concentrating solely on the manners, on the practice, on the rituals, had ensured a boundary of success. The beast could only hazard a guess that many instructors had simply tossed Sascha aside; sundry dispositions unwanted in the modicum of battlefields and the paradigms of skirmishes. But that didn’t mean Sascha couldn’t try, couldn’t learn, or couldn’t adapt.
He’d taken a chance for himself, and the warrior was pleased.
The youth blocked it, and Deimos allowed a small smile to peek through the actions and motives. Then, thereafter, when he’d told him to think about what to do on a successful dodge, to muse past mere evasion and go into something more, the man had managed. He swung towards Deimos’ left hip, to which the soldier, diving straight into muscle memory, into honed reflexes, into years upon years of swordplay, invasions, and a world borne into vitriol, lowered his weapon to take the attack.
Then he stepped back, a respectable nod of his head towards Sascha. “Well done,” he extended, the smile still there, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I think we can end here today.” He lowered his blade, the sharpened knob of wood sticking into the ground. “Do you have any questions?”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
