DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Mid-morning found the heathen in the clutches of the barracks, shifting the armory shelving, restocking their wares, before finally grabbing hold of a sword to practice. He maneuvered along the outskirts of the training grounds, eyeing the catapult tucked along the corners, but relegating himself to the proportions of the targets instead of the volleying sweep and force of the ballista’s menace. Today it was his strength, his precision, his malice alone; a roll of his sleeves, long hair twisted back, an undulation of his muscles, a roughened contortion to his motions as he stood before the re-shaped mark, drawing the blade, and beginning the act of honed memories and inherent abilities. Crafted from time beyond time, from lives beyond lives, sharpened and harpooned from days spent along battlefields, amongst campaigns, within tirade after tirade, blistering and scathing amidst tempests and ruins. A figure meant to unravel, meant to devastate, meant to vanquish, his sword cut and twisted, thrust into irreverent lacerations, gone and gone again, fortitude and might behind the potency, the puissance, the pernicious collisions. He only ceased when the pieces of the target were slashed and ribboned again, thoroughly destroyed, left wondering he should create something that could self-repair after they were all said and done with their ramparts and eaves – and then a voice curled over the backdrop, calling for him.He didn’t expect anyone at this hour, or ever, really, the barracks essentially vacant for now. He wiped his brow, took one last look at the distorted shape, before reconfiguring the echoes, the reverberations, of the voice resounding through his skull. It sounded like Oliver – the particular keen, the slightest puncture of anxiety and apprehension, and he shrugged, maneuvering along the fringes and boundaries until he was at the front portion of the defensive threshold. His guess, estimation, and prediction had been correct, the familiar shock of pale hair and consternation drifting along the front. “Oliver,” he addressed, rounding the corner, the sword sheathed and tucked back into his belt. “What can I do for you?”
