DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos had been immersed in savage, irreverent tendencies since youth; spiraling into training, into war, into invasions, so when predator undulations curled and coiled through his spine, it was the epitome of normalcy. He understood the weight of sedition, the spring of bloodlust kindled in the back, and now, the forefront of his mind. He knew the notion of training, of honing, of curling it all back into precision. But he also comprehended it wasn’t the same for everyone – and as the General, he took it upon himself to ensure that at least some, those willing, those striving, would be able to contort and control the same, similar aspects.
A portrait in silence and quiet, hushed sedition, poised to ignite and unfurl, unleash and devour, at any point in time, he remained in suspense, biding the moments away while Oliver contemplated his choices. The machinations and calculations in the younger man’s mind made sense, his eyes following the selection with piercing, puncturing ease: over to the left, some injured fowl, likely not destined to live out the season, and amongst the elderly, perhaps stiff, body no longer as yielding. Thereafter, he allotted his own advice. Both are likely catches. I would go for the injured. Easier, and will not put up as much as a fight. The older one might have sagacity and wisdom to it, while the wounded bird might have simply lost all its opportunities for evasion and escape. How are you going to proceed? What were his plans: launching? Waiting? Did he want both of them to flush the turkey out, away from the group? The Sword wouldn't simply just tell him what to do; Oliver would be required to think on his own, so the next time this occurred, he'd already be prepared, and have some thoughts on the matter.
A portrait in silence and quiet, hushed sedition, poised to ignite and unfurl, unleash and devour, at any point in time, he remained in suspense, biding the moments away while Oliver contemplated his choices. The machinations and calculations in the younger man’s mind made sense, his eyes following the selection with piercing, puncturing ease: over to the left, some injured fowl, likely not destined to live out the season, and amongst the elderly, perhaps stiff, body no longer as yielding. Thereafter, he allotted his own advice. Both are likely catches. I would go for the injured. Easier, and will not put up as much as a fight. The older one might have sagacity and wisdom to it, while the wounded bird might have simply lost all its opportunities for evasion and escape. How are you going to proceed? What were his plans: launching? Waiting? Did he want both of them to flush the turkey out, away from the group? The Sword wouldn't simply just tell him what to do; Oliver would be required to think on his own, so the next time this occurred, he'd already be prepared, and have some thoughts on the matter.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
