DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The beast felt like stone and crag compared to her swift, sleek maneuvers, unaccustomed and unware of how much his figure could truly maul or devastate; mired and murky, senses overwhelmed and muddled. He only had a short interval of time to watch her snatch at the snow he’d batted – eyes widening in a bit of disbelief, the fragments of amusement beginning to brim back along his form.
Then she leapt – clearly intending to launch straight into him, and on impulse, on whims, on inclinations, he lowered his frame straight to the ground, hoping she’d merely slide over the top of him, go bounding and bouncing into the snowbanks and rime-filled loam. Something rankled in the back of his mind, an exasperation, a frustration, he hadn’t experienced since he’d first begun training with a sword, rough and uncertain, green and ineffectual, an inept fledgling.
He found he was being cautious. He didn’t particularly care for it.
Calculations and machinations were one thing, but lingering along the unknown, bristling in its hide, and being stuck along its ramparts was irksome, irritating, like a nettle, like a thorn, sliding down his ribs. Combat should’ve been something he was readily attuned to in any form, but this one had more power than he knew what to do with, and he held back – sliding along his own weaknesses, flaws, and defects, swallowing down the strange disassembled pride. Be better churned in his gut and pulsed over his figure, to himself, a refrain, a modicum, clenching in his jaw.
So he lowered his haunches, intending to gain more power, more momentum, more something, before launching for her.
Then she leapt – clearly intending to launch straight into him, and on impulse, on whims, on inclinations, he lowered his frame straight to the ground, hoping she’d merely slide over the top of him, go bounding and bouncing into the snowbanks and rime-filled loam. Something rankled in the back of his mind, an exasperation, a frustration, he hadn’t experienced since he’d first begun training with a sword, rough and uncertain, green and ineffectual, an inept fledgling.
He found he was being cautious. He didn’t particularly care for it.
Calculations and machinations were one thing, but lingering along the unknown, bristling in its hide, and being stuck along its ramparts was irksome, irritating, like a nettle, like a thorn, sliding down his ribs. Combat should’ve been something he was readily attuned to in any form, but this one had more power than he knew what to do with, and he held back – sliding along his own weaknesses, flaws, and defects, swallowing down the strange disassembled pride. Be better churned in his gut and pulsed over his figure, to himself, a refrain, a modicum, clenching in his jaw.
So he lowered his haunches, intending to gain more power, more momentum, more something, before launching for her.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
