DEIMOS
The art of battle was ingrained, innate, inherent, contortions and distortions to him that would never truly leave; an eternal part of his movements, from the way he maneuvered in savage ministrations, to the arch and lilt of his stride, built for intimidation, for tracking adversaries, for following their measures and pulverizing their missteps. It came with practice and training, multiple lifetimes of honing in on disaster and melees, of rushing across open fields and circumventing sieges meant to take him down, of quick, feral, nefarious predilections that meant life or death. It was violent through and through, vehement and wild, savage and untamed, postured in the highlight of his blade as it slashed down and down, along imaginary torsos and bleeding incorporeal ichor. It haunted his dreams. It enhanced his beliefs. It followed him with every breath and every pulse, every incandescent, infernal beat of his rapacious, ravenous heart.
And if she didn’t, couldn’t, quite fathom its existence –
But as his eyes snapped back over to hers, hands busy with collapsing the dummies back into a satchel, her features were very clear on what she thought about the tactics, the sway, the brushstrokes of battle.
He swallowed something breathless down, down, down, at her hooded eyes and husky voice; incised, enticed, inveigled in too many other directions now, the spinning wheels of weapons gone and gone with a snap. He managed to somehow pick up all the munitions he’d left about, placing the bag nearby for when he returned to grasp its threshold. The beast wasn’t about to shy away and leave an invitation drifting out into the wind, an emboldened motion later and he was hovering above her, swift to respond with a Cheshire grin and a thousand other insinuations on the depths of his tongue, on his mouth, on his lips. “Of course.”
And if she didn’t, couldn’t, quite fathom its existence –
But as his eyes snapped back over to hers, hands busy with collapsing the dummies back into a satchel, her features were very clear on what she thought about the tactics, the sway, the brushstrokes of battle.
He swallowed something breathless down, down, down, at her hooded eyes and husky voice; incised, enticed, inveigled in too many other directions now, the spinning wheels of weapons gone and gone with a snap. He managed to somehow pick up all the munitions he’d left about, placing the bag nearby for when he returned to grasp its threshold. The beast wasn’t about to shy away and leave an invitation drifting out into the wind, an emboldened motion later and he was hovering above her, swift to respond with a Cheshire grin and a thousand other insinuations on the depths of his tongue, on his mouth, on his lips. “Of course.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
