The presented gift

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Content to watch another’s skill and expertise with weaponry and munitions, Deimos took it as an opportunity to observe and study. There were quite a few with similar talents around the Hollowed Grounds, but they seemed to employ them for hunting purposes and rarely defensive measures (which was fair – given the little battle and warfare Naturals experienced). Arms folded across his chest, piercing eyes took in the change in Sascha’s demeanor as well – almost a serious quality beneath the sunshine and radiance, diving into what must’ve been more primordial, instinctual techniques, embedded within him from training, from multitudes and intervals of constant drawing, notching, and target practice. It was swift and polished, perfected archery, and he rumbled a note of approval in his throat when the arrow met the middle – sunken into the goal on keen aplomb. Then the ebullience was back, and the Sword’s eyes swept away from the bullseye, and back to the healer, artisan, and bow-master. “We had many archers in our ranks.” A necessity, and it made them a soldier just as much as the ones battling along the front lines – as they took out adversaries, as they reigned and ranged from above, deadly and precise. Deimos would always have a healthy respect for their capabilities and achievements. Twisting his head, tilting it a fraction, he pondered out loud. “Would you like one?” A bow? He could easily craft one perfecting and personifying the other man. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace