who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos, the embodiment of warrior archetypes and cold-blooded sedition, had expected inquiries about assaults, sieges, where to hit, where to defend, where to assault so searing pain was longer lasting, so an enemy toppled and stayed down, so worlds were fraught with terror and treachery. Instead, Sascha surprised him again, lending questions about his health and welfare, instead of anything else. He should’ve known better, based on who the younger man was, what he represented – and instead of calling to arms or munitions, the beast allowed a slow smile, raising his hand to show it was no worse for wear. “I have had worse,” he intoned, light laughter, a chuckle, following – truth and veracity sprung from his lips, the scars, blemishes, and etched lines along his form telling a myriad of stories, reflections of battles and survival. “You have nothing to apologize for,” and he moved forward, patting Sascha on the shoulder as he maneuvered past, placing his sword back along and amongst the others.
A consideration meandered through his mind, calculating measures, scrupulous, pondering, mulling, moments of a king lost in his ice, in his rime, in his glacial sanction, meant to direct others to chosen paths for the good of the terrain. “I wonder, Sascha,” and he turned back to the youth, face no longer so nonchalant, but intrigued, curious. “If you have ever considered going into healing?” It wasn’t an insult to his fighting capability – he’d easily slip into the role given enough practice, tutelage, and instruction – but with his concern over another’s welfare after everything was completed, perhaps he would be better suited to ensuring soothing, assuaging rites (one couldn’t march up to an adversary to ensure their good health, after all – that was when a sword stabbed into a chest to finish them off). It was a rank always necessary and needed, required given the amount of danger and ridiculous events they all involved themselves in. He had no intention of funneling him into a notion Sascha didn't enjoy; but it was an option, an alternative, if he found he didn't enjoy spilling blood and ichor.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
