legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
Generals were meant to be ruthless. Generals were precise. Generals held skills of tacticians, of Machiavellian masterminds, of strength, durability, and fortitude. He’d know – the warrior was once all of those things, scaling great heights across expansive battlefields, laying waste to enemies, bartering time for allies, wrecking and demolishing and upholding a creed of condemnation, consignments to oblivion.
It came full circle now, honed right back into his blood. Except now there was no army – he and Loren didn’t constitute anything more than minutemen – fervent to join an ensuing fight. But it mattered little, in the scheme of things. With the blight, with impending Long Night, there was no time to dwell in the ridiculous ventures of their lackluster defenses. It meant he had to become better. Stronger. Mightier. Better than before; scorching, obliterating, a massive, barbaric foe for anyone who dared to cross him or those he considered family.
He'd spent a greater part of the day making armor for himself, for Zuriel, and a few others in mind, and left the metal to sit in the winter’s sun for a few moments while he swung a new blade, intending to balance its weight, ponder over how to meld it into a brighter conviction. On a whim, he stoked its fibers into one of the targets nearby, listened to the resplendence in its vitriol, in its fervency, in its calculated efforts, tilting it from side to side in his calloused palms, testing it from both hands. The shape was clean, good, no chink in its steel, forged iron and irreverence in its adornments, plain this time, no airs, no mercurial ornaments, a satisfactory pulse to the air after a third iteration and movement. It would serve someone well. But would it amount to anything during Long Night – or was it useless, infallible, when monsters haunted and loomed?
It came full circle now, honed right back into his blood. Except now there was no army – he and Loren didn’t constitute anything more than minutemen – fervent to join an ensuing fight. But it mattered little, in the scheme of things. With the blight, with impending Long Night, there was no time to dwell in the ridiculous ventures of their lackluster defenses. It meant he had to become better. Stronger. Mightier. Better than before; scorching, obliterating, a massive, barbaric foe for anyone who dared to cross him or those he considered family.
He'd spent a greater part of the day making armor for himself, for Zuriel, and a few others in mind, and left the metal to sit in the winter’s sun for a few moments while he swung a new blade, intending to balance its weight, ponder over how to meld it into a brighter conviction. On a whim, he stoked its fibers into one of the targets nearby, listened to the resplendence in its vitriol, in its fervency, in its calculated efforts, tilting it from side to side in his calloused palms, testing it from both hands. The shape was clean, good, no chink in its steel, forged iron and irreverence in its adornments, plain this time, no airs, no mercurial ornaments, a satisfactory pulse to the air after a third iteration and movement. It would serve someone well. But would it amount to anything during Long Night – or was it useless, infallible, when monsters haunted and loomed?
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
