[PQ] every fire fueled

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Kiada brought sustenance; something they would all need in the coming hours – he smiled in return, nodding, grateful that she could collect things he wouldn’t have thought of (working to the bone, mauling, menacing, going and going and going until adversaries and enemies were vanquished, until the fog cleared, until graves needed to be dug). “Glad you approve,” he rumbled, but knew it was in jest, in spirit, and they waited together, in the breadth of silence, until movement shumbled forth. One completely unknown to him, but clearly in recognition of Kiada, strode forward, nearly as tall as himself – the Reaper’s brows arched towards the Harpy but said nothing in response. The deep intonations of his voice responded to the youth, cranium nodding. “Nothing wrong with learning how to wield both.” Then his eyes flickered to Rory, the farmer, the starter of rebellions, and his smile grew broader, content to see him here, waiting, waiting, waiting; and Deimos wondered if there was any experience in bashing enemies over the head with his tools – plunging pitchforks and pikes into the sides of others – musing on the notion with ease. Another unfamiliar individual strode forth, and the beast was pleased that the notice board had done its job: this woman slimmer, but by no means did that mean she was weaker. Perhaps she had a hidden skill, a means to an end, practice emboldened by years of life elsewhere; his stare rested on her, another nod granted. “You are.” Finally, there was Wessex – and he smirked. Maybe she’d come for the sensation of practice, for instigating skills, for providing her own wisdom and sagacity to the forefront – even in the harsh collections of daylight. Nonetheless, he was pleased she’d arrived. And with that, their combat party had been assembled. He turned to address them all – voice loud and carrying; suddenly remembering those chilling days across Basin valleys, calling out to a kingdom, a sovereignty, instilled in pride and belonging, in strength and might. It could be the same here. The Reaper strived into those inclinations now, less ice king, more formidable soldier, a warrior through and through. Introductions were swift, obliging, and then onto the meaning of the hour; suddenly in his element, facing soldiers, warriors, and fighters - mercenaries and munition in the making. “Thank you for coming. I am Deimos, and this is Kiada. Our purpose here is to ensure you receive practice and instruction in the ways of the sword.” His eyes drifted over their number, even, easily to render and maneuver within. “If you do not have a blade of your own, you are welcome to grab a wooden one,” and here he indicated the pile nearby, plain, unadorned weapons meant to signify the weight of a true sword, without the painful, serrated edges. That could come later. “Once you have chosen, please pair up amongst yourselves and find a space.” There was plenty of it – the field was massive. Whenever or wherever they had found themselves settled, the beast stood within the middle, his timbre a fathom stretching along the grass. “Kiada or I will provide moves and maneuvers that you may try offensively or defensively. However, before we begin, what experience or abilities do you have?” That way they could find out where to go – applying different methods depending on the team. -- Grab a sword, a partner, and let us know what you know! Kiada first, and then no post order! the last of a line of lasts