He was still silent as she actually listened to his slight reprimand, deigning to tuck away flapping, loose clothing, but he gave her a single nod, indicating he’d noticed her alteration. The beast had no issue with learning, with taking in the noteworthy lessons, in corresponding to change and deliberation, and so continued on his mission, carefully neutral in his motions and notions. At the very least, she listened, which was beyond some of the other inhabitants of this world. If he was irritated or annoyed at her continued persistence, he said naught of the sort, obliging in his pathway and aspirations, but not looking back to see if she followed. His goals and methods would remain the same – as long as she didn’t interfere, then they wouldn’t have an issue.
The beast returned back to his modes of control, quiet, contorted in a bundle of muscle, sinew, and flesh, born in the ramparts of tenacity, ruin, and oblivion, eager to cast himself right back into the thick of fervency, rampage, and discord. His gaze, piercing and devastating in their treacherous reaches, kept to the horizon, to the drifting waves of greenery, to the morning light arching its way over fields. It flickered back and forth along the snow-laden trails too, some passerbys from days before, but some fresher, crisp and clean, notched by angles of toes instead of giant foot-treads. Deimos caught the woman’s whisper, and thought initially about not replying at all, leaving her to silence and hushed platitudes again, but still managed to deign a single word as they continued to maneuver along the outline of the meadow. “Deer.” He pointed to a track as they lingered in its stead, then continued on, patient and observant.
Then, some meters ahead, he finally saw his target. “Get down,” he commanded, swift and keen, as if he were once more in charge of a league of soldiers, all at his beck and call, all united in a front, in a stand, instead of lingering in frosted outcrops. “There - ,” and he pointed again towards the shape grazing nearby, making himself small, a daunting task, in the waves of grass. He suddenly wished he were higher, in a tree, where he could’ve blended into shadow and bark, notched a bow in the confinements of needles and pine, instead of lower and lower still, where his target might sense and see him long before he had the opportunity to unleash fire and brimstone.
Still, he had to try, because to go without meant a lesser chance for survival, and he’d gone too long persevering to suddenly collapse, wither, and decay. Slowly, cautiously, he grabbed an arrow from his back, taking his time to trace the strings, the feathers, the hastily-made contraption now his one saving grace. He collected those moments, wrapped his fingers around the cord, pulled back so his muscles roared, deliberately awakened and incensed by the thought of cold violence, and let the arrow fly.
