DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Steel assaulting the target was a satisfying decibel, without the sound of ripping, torn flesh, mere existences slamming into another solid form, ricocheting and bounding over his senses, unearthing the livelihood of violence and vehemence, a mere spark, no other equivalents here, in the undaunting shrouds, between labyrinth confines and familiarity. A light smirk ensconced its way along his mouth, tipping his head in a sort of mocking bow at her cheer and congratulations, then straightening into his taut form, spine elongating, full height and breadth, watching her focus and throw. Despite it’s off-center motions, a slip of fingers, a touch of the wind, the fact she continued to strike was success enough, especially from where she’d come from. “Growth is growth,” he acknowledged, small, intricate steps always leading to more and more, and before long the victory was honored and obliged with some new parameter and decree. “And preparation is key. I can make you one, if you want.” Something to truly sink a dagger, a stiletto into, less immobile, maneuvering, motioning, spiraling, ambitions and aspirations of defense and attack; protection and upheaval. He followed, grabbing hold of the weapon she offered back to him, the weight familiar in his hands again, a siren swell he ignored at the arch of her next words. The snicker and smirk fell away to a slight widening of his eyes, perhaps the only indication of surprise, before they softened, gaze flicking back to the knife in his palm. In some ways, it was odd, peculiar, to ever think himself in such a situation – because eons and decades and lifetimes before, he’d chased everyone and everything away, left himself in the dunes and arches of isolation because it was comfortable, safe; and somehow, someway, he’d presently managed to gather his own legion of family and loved ones. The paths he’d taken had strayed so significantly – for he very much doubted anyone had ever gushed about him before – any commentary from other kingdoms was certain to be profoundly negative, the Reaper a thorn in sides, a sword at throats. The beast failed to blush, because some segment of discomposure existed in his form, but a smile rested there instead, a boyish little juncture. An aside from devilry and mischief; acceptance and tolerance from one of Amalia’s oldest friends, something he didn’t realize he needed, but felt secure in its existence. He wouldn’t dare ask what the baker had said or proclaimed. “Thank you. I aim to.” And he made mistakes, sometimes just as damned and dim as yesteryears, then attempted to learn from them – whether or not it was enough would remain to be seen.
Unite and spread the heart apart
