DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
In another time, Deimos might’ve been amused by the preparation for an assault, or some intimidating layers forged on his presence. But now he felt like an empty vessel, carried ashore one too many times on its hollowed reaches, tired, fatigued, burning at both ends and nothing to show for it. Nothing but loss, ruin, and devastation, annihilation built up from seasons of never-ending suffering.
He strived to focus on what Oliver was telling him, because for once it made sense, and to see the blacksmith applying and utilizing himself correctly was a welcome surprise. He settled his haunches down to the ground, tiger tail the only thing maneuvering, absentmindedly lingering around in waves along the earth. Calming. Settling. Good to see you trying. A change he honestly thought he’d never see – shrugging through his shoulders, eyes riveting on the collection of hunted items stowed away for future use and intentions.
The offer curled through him too – and he nearly refused. Tired and weary, distraught and untethered, lost from anything and everything he’d ever sought, he was in no mood to hunt. To do much of anything. To be naught more than some haunted figment on the backdrop, alive but certainly not well.
But maybe it’d be a decent distraction, a way to unfurl into primordial things, into unrelenting vehemence, into moments that once scorched along his bones. Sure rattled there, a drained and weary tone. Lead on.
He strived to focus on what Oliver was telling him, because for once it made sense, and to see the blacksmith applying and utilizing himself correctly was a welcome surprise. He settled his haunches down to the ground, tiger tail the only thing maneuvering, absentmindedly lingering around in waves along the earth. Calming. Settling. Good to see you trying. A change he honestly thought he’d never see – shrugging through his shoulders, eyes riveting on the collection of hunted items stowed away for future use and intentions.
The offer curled through him too – and he nearly refused. Tired and weary, distraught and untethered, lost from anything and everything he’d ever sought, he was in no mood to hunt. To do much of anything. To be naught more than some haunted figment on the backdrop, alive but certainly not well.
But maybe it’d be a decent distraction, a way to unfurl into primordial things, into unrelenting vehemence, into moments that once scorched along his bones. Sure rattled there, a drained and weary tone. Lead on.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
