[Training] sometimes, quiet is violent

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

Deimos could understand the sentiments and ruminations behind Oliver’s thoughts; the unease, the worry, the fear, and then the spoken vibes. He’d run into the same issues with Amalia, who’d strived and tried but had no yearning to grasp the hilt of her daggers, and his eyes narrowed in speculation. I have had far worse echoed, an attempt to channel the apprehensions of the other feline elsewhere. The Sword had survived invasions, wars, abductions, and bloodshed; Oliver’s claws would hurt for a time, but they would heal, the same as all his other lacerations. The ichor would dry. He would mend. A reel in his schemes presided, weighted in the ether: Your enemies will not be as kind.

The beast reared back his head as paws came clattering to his face, the strangest of assaults because there was no anguish, no irreverence behind it. It was effective in that regard too, surprise granting Oliver the opportunity to escape and evade, a lift of the tiger’s body as he shook his massive cranium back and forth. With that, he was no longer in reach of Oliver’s teeth or paws, the smaller attuned liberated, a snort extended. Better. Then he shifted entirely away, allowing the youth to get up once more.

But, it seemed as though enough was enough for today – he’d been tested in predator skills and combat. We can end here, unless there was something else you wanted to do.

still standing

not because you can

but because you have to