DEIMOS
There’d been a few soldiers in their regiment who hadn’t wanted to be there – for some reason or another, they’d still signed their lives away, put their names to paper, packed their bags, and trained amidst their group. There had always been a hesitancy; perhaps lacking the drive to maim, maul, and mutilate, perhaps never intending to go so far. Some had left of their own accord. Some had been asked to vacate. Some had ground their heels in, raised their chins, and spoke of how they would do it, they could do it. A portion of them had ultimately forged on, swung their swords into another’s chest, paralyzed the world with their inherent abilities, honed from days of fighting on the ground – because when those moments came, those darker, vivid, seditious shards of hate, of menace, of venom came raining down upon one’s soul, they either fell apart or fought – to live, to survive.
They’re not too far into it here and now – but the clamor, the din, the match has been set, and the kindling was ready, eager, to burn.
He just didn’t want her to lose herself.
The warrior saw the resolution in her grasp, in her eyes, heard the spark of revolution in the edgy clusters of her tone; and he nodded. He wouldn’t ask her again.
She wanted to protect, and so did he – squalls and tempests, barrages and sieges, a customary motivation, a blinding aspiration, a bristling, unwinding ambition. It made brave beings falter even in the lightest of hours, but he’d ensure, somehow, someway, that she’d be properly trained for the days ahead. He wasn’t sure what they’d face, but none of them would be alone. The Reaper was amongst those who always put his figure into the storm.
The metal slashed through the air, a follow through on his instruction, and he waited for the opportune time to block, pushing his dagger into hers, blade against blade, listening to the crash, the decibel, the scraping of power and undulations. What sounded like music to his ears was likely a rough cacophony to hers, so he plucked it away quickly, thought of another direction. “Better.” The length of his gaze pinpointed to her stature, to the lithe accord – presumed she’d make quick work of his next direction. “Let me teach you to disarm.”
He assumed his stance again – nodding at her to mimic the same. “Now, when you go to swing your weapon,” and here he gently encouraged her blade to slash downward again, “You can aim for their wrist.” Slowly, so she could see it, he brought his dagger, placed lightly, to the underside of her wrist, where an opponent would be forced to drop or cease their action, too distracted by pain or impending doom. “However, if you miss, there is always the opportunity to get them from behind.” He brought his knife back up, pretending as if it had merely glanced over the fringes of her skin, using momentum and movement to twist his hips, and maneuver his feet, so he ended up behind her – a dagger potentially to her back.
Then he retreated, placing himself in front of her again, arms raised in their featured posture. “Try.” That’s all he cared about – she didn’t have to draw blood from an enemy, from an adversary – he merely needed her prepared, ready, for whatever daunting thing came for them.
They’re not too far into it here and now – but the clamor, the din, the match has been set, and the kindling was ready, eager, to burn.
He just didn’t want her to lose herself.
The warrior saw the resolution in her grasp, in her eyes, heard the spark of revolution in the edgy clusters of her tone; and he nodded. He wouldn’t ask her again.
She wanted to protect, and so did he – squalls and tempests, barrages and sieges, a customary motivation, a blinding aspiration, a bristling, unwinding ambition. It made brave beings falter even in the lightest of hours, but he’d ensure, somehow, someway, that she’d be properly trained for the days ahead. He wasn’t sure what they’d face, but none of them would be alone. The Reaper was amongst those who always put his figure into the storm.
The metal slashed through the air, a follow through on his instruction, and he waited for the opportune time to block, pushing his dagger into hers, blade against blade, listening to the crash, the decibel, the scraping of power and undulations. What sounded like music to his ears was likely a rough cacophony to hers, so he plucked it away quickly, thought of another direction. “Better.” The length of his gaze pinpointed to her stature, to the lithe accord – presumed she’d make quick work of his next direction. “Let me teach you to disarm.”
He assumed his stance again – nodding at her to mimic the same. “Now, when you go to swing your weapon,” and here he gently encouraged her blade to slash downward again, “You can aim for their wrist.” Slowly, so she could see it, he brought his dagger, placed lightly, to the underside of her wrist, where an opponent would be forced to drop or cease their action, too distracted by pain or impending doom. “However, if you miss, there is always the opportunity to get them from behind.” He brought his knife back up, pretending as if it had merely glanced over the fringes of her skin, using momentum and movement to twist his hips, and maneuver his feet, so he ended up behind her – a dagger potentially to her back.
Then he retreated, placing himself in front of her again, arms raised in their featured posture. “Try.” That’s all he cared about – she didn’t have to draw blood from an enemy, from an adversary – he merely needed her prepared, ready, for whatever daunting thing came for them.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
