[Training] [se] these years of infinity

Deimos The Sword had fought many times for different reasons. For land. For people. For defense. For assaults and sieges. For vengeance. And then sometimes for the sheer thrill of it all, immersed in the education, the sagacity, of what it meant to survive, and continue bleeding, beating, through the course of the world. It was what he’d always tried to instill in those he trained, and he wove and wore it well here, amidst and across the sand. Darkeye’s first defense pushed the spear away, leaving them both wide open. Deimos didn’t smirk, didn’t snicker, didn’t rage, didn’t howl, but appeared all the more amused – mind contorting which strategy to employ next. It was his own body to take the brunt of the hit, turning sideways, so Darkeye’s kick would meet muscle and mass instead of a knee; coming along the side and winding up on his thigh. Easily endured. An ache wouldn’t stop him, after all. With that twist, he brought the spear around and back, intending to knock it the wooden proportions squarely into the older man’s shoulders. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime