legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
Her speed was assured, a certainty in his brawn, mass, and height compared to her own; but only a grin managed to muster itself along his features as they gave way to maneuvers familiar, motions known, expressed once on the outset of wars, on the sides of campaigns, on the outliers of ramparts and stockades. How many scars had he borne from an enemy’s speed? How much blood had he lost due to an adversary’s swiftness? Now he had to be keen and blunt again, her long, hefty claymore rampaging towards his chest; forced to back away, to turn in another direction, so he wasn’t struck or felled down by its impeccable weight and capability. He raised his own sword in efforts to cease its onslaught, intending to catch blade upon blade, then motioned towards the right. The beast always had a healthy respect for anyone’s weaponry – munitions cast and prospered, the broad notches of steel, the forged iron, and detachment of a cutlass’s impeccable balance.
Perhaps he could catch her here, in a different direction, in a new volley; not entirely bothered that neither had landed a hit. It was one of those scorching melees, a back and forth, a twist, a turn, a testing of capabilities rather than spilling ichor or raising abhorrence, examining and scrutinizing fellow warrior’s abilities. For this interval and instant, he swung with precision, with prowess, with attempted accuracy, towards her left hip.
Perhaps he could catch her here, in a different direction, in a new volley; not entirely bothered that neither had landed a hit. It was one of those scorching melees, a back and forth, a twist, a turn, a testing of capabilities rather than spilling ichor or raising abhorrence, examining and scrutinizing fellow warrior’s abilities. For this interval and instant, he swung with precision, with prowess, with attempted accuracy, towards her left hip.
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
