legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
The blade bade its master, slicing through the air with might, with grit, with tenacity, and his muscles rippled, undulated through movements and motions with familiar, habitual obstinance; days of battlefield longing, when they were stripped down to the core of humanity, when only survival bit into their minds, consumed, held them aloft and upright until blow upon blow matched their vitriol and vehemence. He switched hands simply to exercise the other, capable of rampaging with both, sliding its weight along the ether with matched parallels, and there was some distant haze in his sedition, in his decadence, in his unsung, unholy splendor, of yesteryear’s seasons when he knew exactly what the world was made of (sinners and thieves and monsters and soldiers; except now there was just more than greed and glory to consider).
An individual maneuvered into his peripheral vision, and he swung around as if still in battle, a poised beast, capable of serving no god but the notions of the reaper and his scythe; only registering the stranger as familiar a moment later, and the compliment accompanying her. “Roana,” he nodded, indicating she could step forward, sheathing the sword along his belt and gazing along, across, the expanse she seemed either intrigued, inspired, or curious of. He shrugged – eyes flicking over the field with its targets, with its armor gleaming on top of readied woodpiles, with the unicorn grazing nearby, her watchful eye instantly coiled upon the woman-soldier. “Thank you.” It was nothing compared to Ronin’s training grounds at the Monster Hunter’s guild, but adequate for his current needs. His gaze swept back to her, an arch to his brow, speaking to her as he would any other warrior - their machinations and inclinations likely similar stances, war-drum slashes and depravities that came with necessary tactics. “What brings you here?”
An individual maneuvered into his peripheral vision, and he swung around as if still in battle, a poised beast, capable of serving no god but the notions of the reaper and his scythe; only registering the stranger as familiar a moment later, and the compliment accompanying her. “Roana,” he nodded, indicating she could step forward, sheathing the sword along his belt and gazing along, across, the expanse she seemed either intrigued, inspired, or curious of. He shrugged – eyes flicking over the field with its targets, with its armor gleaming on top of readied woodpiles, with the unicorn grazing nearby, her watchful eye instantly coiled upon the woman-soldier. “Thank you.” It was nothing compared to Ronin’s training grounds at the Monster Hunter’s guild, but adequate for his current needs. His gaze swept back to her, an arch to his brow, speaking to her as he would any other warrior - their machinations and inclinations likely similar stances, war-drum slashes and depravities that came with necessary tactics. “What brings you here?”
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
