DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He smirked in the midst of admiration and mischief; returning it in volleys of the Attuned, half-tempted to rise up and poke the otter persisting on the surface. Instead, he continued, persisted, to rumble and traverse below, stoking through the fathoms of the surf and tide, drinking in the serenity, the tranquility, of worlds he’d once left behind. It was something to snatch and linger within, to hold in memories and recollections when they stowed away for LongNight, when other eldritch notions threatened to overwhelm and consume. The bright, beatific view before him, arms unfurling, like a machine, coasting and coasting and coasting until his lungs warned and he rose again. At home, at peace, capable of embarking into one of the elements that made him whole, that made him human, that made him complete – yesteryears not so fargone when it pooled over his skin.
And along the veneer, if he chose to take in a mouthful of water and then spray it, very boyishly, impishly, devilishly, along her resting form, then so be it.
Deimos tread water for an instant, thinking, reflecting, pondering while muscles rested in the wiles of repose. The Sword could feel the slightest weights of darkness pervading from the Shield, hadn’t meant to instill it, and shoved the cumbersome, overwhelming nature of it away, imploring into the range of misbehavior or predilections of waters enriched with life, rather than melancholy.
His eyes wandered over the horizon before he had an opportunity to speak, watching as something else, a bony fin, rose over the void and back down again. Distant still, but he arched a brow all the same, curiosity brewing, brimming. “Or another might be here,” of a different sanction – given the bleached contortions of marrow, lost, vacant tissue – no turtle of contented memories and remnants. His head and jaw jutted forward, indicating the direction, arching a brow, waiting for a decision to be made. Follow? Watch?
And along the veneer, if he chose to take in a mouthful of water and then spray it, very boyishly, impishly, devilishly, along her resting form, then so be it.
Deimos tread water for an instant, thinking, reflecting, pondering while muscles rested in the wiles of repose. The Sword could feel the slightest weights of darkness pervading from the Shield, hadn’t meant to instill it, and shoved the cumbersome, overwhelming nature of it away, imploring into the range of misbehavior or predilections of waters enriched with life, rather than melancholy.
His eyes wandered over the horizon before he had an opportunity to speak, watching as something else, a bony fin, rose over the void and back down again. Distant still, but he arched a brow all the same, curiosity brewing, brimming. “Or another might be here,” of a different sanction – given the bleached contortions of marrow, lost, vacant tissue – no turtle of contented memories and remnants. His head and jaw jutted forward, indicating the direction, arching a brow, waiting for a decision to be made. Follow? Watch?
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
