DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The bright sun cast a direct juxtaposition to the sullen, taciturn reaches of his mood – staring into the sea, into the opposite of the world where Adam, Peter, and the luxere had been left behind, was enough to scrawl and claw against his shoulders. Jigano’s note had sent him here, along ports and docks, ships anchored, tied, and tethered, or setting off to meander along the coast; attempting to deviate his attention from the spiraling weight he’d either placed upon himself, or the note of failures. Safrin might have told them they weren’t their mistakes, but they continued to maim and rip along his thoughts, and with the notion of building a memorial, a way to commemorate those lost in the damned caverns, the images, the sights, the sounds, pummeled against him like a rough tide. Just more and more additions to every defeat, floundering, foundering motion he’d ever made.
He maneuvered upright, taut, and rigid, Colossus marching across sands along a diligent stride, days and lives before he’d done just the same, rampaging, racing, into the waves. A portion of the General should’ve avidly enjoyed each concept, each avenue, each sight of the of the seas, but the subject matter held him at bay, and his eyes drifted from piers and towards the image of shrines. Eventually, as his movements were purposeful, searching, he spotted Jigano against the backdrop of surf, and like a mighty beast, proceeded towards the Lorekeeper. The other man seemed lost in thought, a frown along sketches in a journal, so the Sword said naught at first, waiting until he was noticed before addressing him. “Jigano,” a nod of his head by way of greeting, the familiar bag of holding on his shoulder, the silence stretching, waiting for some inevitable inquiry, the start of something else.
He maneuvered upright, taut, and rigid, Colossus marching across sands along a diligent stride, days and lives before he’d done just the same, rampaging, racing, into the waves. A portion of the General should’ve avidly enjoyed each concept, each avenue, each sight of the of the seas, but the subject matter held him at bay, and his eyes drifted from piers and towards the image of shrines. Eventually, as his movements were purposeful, searching, he spotted Jigano against the backdrop of surf, and like a mighty beast, proceeded towards the Lorekeeper. The other man seemed lost in thought, a frown along sketches in a journal, so the Sword said naught at first, waiting until he was noticed before addressing him. “Jigano,” a nod of his head by way of greeting, the familiar bag of holding on his shoulder, the silence stretching, waiting for some inevitable inquiry, the start of something else.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
