DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Volleys and follies, dramatics playing out over vestiges of surf and sun, her first response earning a derisive snort, the smirk playing along his features, the roll of his eyes given over to the horizon. She’d know, more than anyone, the depths of his protection, will, and safeguarding, yet to leave another intentionally behind. Predilections of stalwart dispositions, even immersed and embedded into colder hearts, fixtures, and insurrection, still ran rampant over his soul, eternally driven to shielding tactics.
But that was not where they were now – no soulless ramparts, no haphazard wakes, no destructive forces clambering down around them, falling upon their heads. They weren’t collected or fragmented into acrimony, hostility, or frameworks of oblivion. A few moments of bliss, of repose, letting go of all the things bearing down on shoulders, on matters, on lives, on formidable, pending days spent in nothing but monsters, demons, and the clawing unknown.
Changes and alterations again, not along his own body, still formidably human, but hers. His eyes caught the shift into otter configurations, arching a brow beneath the waves, permitting the smallest of smiles to linger in realms of silence and held breaths. And while she swam in circles around him, his strokes were machinations and meticulous contortions of days spent amidst the bracken, shoal, and surf. Muscles honed for the accord, rippling and streamlined, curved, carved, and coiled undulations over scars, over lines of defiance. At home, in the midst of mountains or at sea.
But her question gave him pause, a furrowing of the brows in thought and consideration. I never got to see the Tulmhainar in truth, having to leave before he perished in the first Spire misadventure, and then not taking part in the sacrificial accord amidst the Greatwood. The tones weren’t regretful, just veracity, opportunities lost in otherworldly facets. Nor was he one for much imagination, but Caido had instilled a firm element in the mystical and enigmatic. He maneuvered to the surface again, briefly, to instill another breath, before making his way back down, swimming and stoking in a firm line beside the current. Where do you think they would be?
But that was not where they were now – no soulless ramparts, no haphazard wakes, no destructive forces clambering down around them, falling upon their heads. They weren’t collected or fragmented into acrimony, hostility, or frameworks of oblivion. A few moments of bliss, of repose, letting go of all the things bearing down on shoulders, on matters, on lives, on formidable, pending days spent in nothing but monsters, demons, and the clawing unknown.
Changes and alterations again, not along his own body, still formidably human, but hers. His eyes caught the shift into otter configurations, arching a brow beneath the waves, permitting the smallest of smiles to linger in realms of silence and held breaths. And while she swam in circles around him, his strokes were machinations and meticulous contortions of days spent amidst the bracken, shoal, and surf. Muscles honed for the accord, rippling and streamlined, curved, carved, and coiled undulations over scars, over lines of defiance. At home, in the midst of mountains or at sea.
But her question gave him pause, a furrowing of the brows in thought and consideration. I never got to see the Tulmhainar in truth, having to leave before he perished in the first Spire misadventure, and then not taking part in the sacrificial accord amidst the Greatwood. The tones weren’t regretful, just veracity, opportunities lost in otherworldly facets. Nor was he one for much imagination, but Caido had instilled a firm element in the mystical and enigmatic. He maneuvered to the surface again, briefly, to instill another breath, before making his way back down, swimming and stoking in a firm line beside the current. Where do you think they would be?
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
