legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
For one who had spent nearly two lifetimes ensuring he wasn’t noticed, or carefully cultivating a demeanor that ensured others stayed far, far away, this world had a knack for ignoring the possibilities and throngs of detachment, insouciance, and reticence, heading straight for him when he least expected it. Along a majority of days he was grateful for it – the acceptance, the tolerance, the ability to somehow spread himself into more prowess, more potential, more capabilities, more endeavors, things he’d always thought left behind in lands and kingdoms long since gone, decayed, mutilated, and destroyed. He wasn’t certain about this one – not yet, Roana simply being a passerby, wandering past his residence on the outskirts of society, targets still ready and apparent in his field. Perhaps it had been curiosity. Perhaps it had been predilection. Perhaps it had been nothing more than empty circumstances. He shrugged back in response, the lightest curl of a smirk settling along the corner of his mouth; allowed to be a little proud of his set-up – intending to make it greater when Long Night’s ominous vows didn’t reign so supreme.
As for the congratulations – he was a tad surprised, mostly because while the honor was there, the strength in numbers wasn’t – a miniscule militia at best, he and Loren, striving to prove might and brawn and vehemence in a land that may not have required it. But he nodded just the same, warrior machinations and calculations. “Thank you.” The Sword didn’t ask about her inclination towards the arts of war; not a beast to pry, not a cretin to meddle. Maybe she had no intention of tethering herself to an army. Maybe she had other responsibilities to tend to. Maybe she’d long since decided not to align or affiliate herself with their nuances. All of it was fine. It was not a decision left up to him. So the subject never segmented or flickered its way to his vocals.
Instead, it was the notions of a spar – not a challenge, though he was one to rarely back down from a proffered skirmish – but a league of practice, a notion of violence meant to teach, to stoke, to train. Permitting an opportunity to pass him by would be foolish at best; it was a wiser maneuver to learn from each and every individual – their maneuvers, their motions, their weaknesses, their strengths.
As far as the inclusion of Krosis, however, his eyes slipped to the blade she patted, an indication of some other abilities to sear into his flesh. He wouldn’t have done the same to her – not in some miniscule practice with nothing on the line. His head tilted, brow arching in a fine line. “What does it do?”
As for the congratulations – he was a tad surprised, mostly because while the honor was there, the strength in numbers wasn’t – a miniscule militia at best, he and Loren, striving to prove might and brawn and vehemence in a land that may not have required it. But he nodded just the same, warrior machinations and calculations. “Thank you.” The Sword didn’t ask about her inclination towards the arts of war; not a beast to pry, not a cretin to meddle. Maybe she had no intention of tethering herself to an army. Maybe she had other responsibilities to tend to. Maybe she’d long since decided not to align or affiliate herself with their nuances. All of it was fine. It was not a decision left up to him. So the subject never segmented or flickered its way to his vocals.
Instead, it was the notions of a spar – not a challenge, though he was one to rarely back down from a proffered skirmish – but a league of practice, a notion of violence meant to teach, to stoke, to train. Permitting an opportunity to pass him by would be foolish at best; it was a wiser maneuver to learn from each and every individual – their maneuvers, their motions, their weaknesses, their strengths.
As far as the inclusion of Krosis, however, his eyes slipped to the blade she patted, an indication of some other abilities to sear into his flesh. He wouldn’t have done the same to her – not in some miniscule practice with nothing on the line. His head tilted, brow arching in a fine line. “What does it do?”
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
