prehistoric

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts To say Deimos was bewildered by the extended compliment was likely an understatement – the Thranduil comparison was extracted almost immediately – his eyes widening for a moment before he strived to regain his composure. Except, perhaps, there were quite a few of those like him, embedded and embossed with magic, with fluid contortions and incantations, ready to enchant, ready to enthrall, ready to encounter anything and everything. Remi was far better with his skills, and the Sword was ready to argue the entire point, except the stranger had moved on, and the moment passed, bizarrely, strangely, and the beast was forced to try and understand the motions, the notions, behind all of it. Accept it, with a nod, with a concealed snort once more. He watched, waiting for the strike, for the nuances of his tutelage, visibly molding a small, slightly feral smile along his lips as the man insinuated he knew about scales, and striving not to snicker a little when the twirling action nearly lost the spear in the water, pondering if maybe this had been a mistake. On the thrust of the spear, on the action, on the motions and maneuvers, the General thought the other Attuned would have it. Except – he followed the weapon into the water, and down, down, down he went, flailing, splashing, a triumphant veneer sticking to his visage, regardless of the nuances and notions placing him in this strange upheaval. For a moment, Deimos was uncertain of what to do at all – stunned, temporarily, by the amount of foolishness, ineptitude, and jocular aptitude, attitude, despite it all. He couldn’t hide the grin this time, couldn’t hold the stoic enamel and marble sanctions together. One look at that damned shoe at the end of the barbed spear, the wild, victorious cackling, and he lost it. His smirk dissolved into a howl of laughter, exuberant despite every muscle trying to hold it back. He crouched low on his rock in case he fell in or opted to roll on his side when his stomach hurt from the waves of chuckles, and they kept returning every time his eyes segmented upon the adornment. “Well done,” he managed, wiping at an eye, all attempts at smothering his amusement now plainly gone. Then he offered a rough, calloused hand, extending it towards the man and his prize, proffering in attempt to get them out of the water. the last of a line of lasts