[Training] find a way

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Insurrection was a catalyst to a majority of his movements, and the notice board’s lasting, lingering impressions had become just one more keen edge in a line of blistering, scalding nuances and decadent sketches. His outlook took on frayed contortions and abhorrent intentions, parsing and stringing together the remains of his ambitions, aspirations, from the latest venture into the collapsed cave. Tethered, knotted, and gnarled in his muscles, in his undulations, in his seething, contemptuous designs, were the makings of targets, utilizing and embarking upon remains of his wood pile, the vestiges gone to the stretch of grass and field out back. He was going to rid himself of his ridiculousness, of his ineptitude, of his ineffectual means and measures, shed the useless brambles and nettles clawing at his frame. The warrior was meant to be just that: a soldier, a military machine, a damned, bestial weapon, armed to the teeth, proficient at fending off threats and ultimatums, barbaric omens – And he hadn’t been capable of anything. He’d grabbed hold of a wooden sword, and one more resting nearby in case he broke the current, not intending to waste good steel on target practice, and long since divested himself of anything but a loose shirt and trousers. The wind whipped across the long, distant plain, the abandoned houses nearby, and he was alone, alone, alone, remembering, recalling, days of calamity stretched across his ether. It sizzled in his blood. It pooled in his veins. It carried on in his limbs, as he launched, fast, fervent, decadent, upon the first of five stacked blocks, the sword in his calloused hands a blistering, beautiful force of nature, sharp, quick, slicing through the air and hitting the first target with a resounding thud. It was an opus, a callback to the days of bloodshed masterpieces and ichor canvases, before the rise and fall, before the end of everything. But these motions were not obligations to an upcoming war, not for the Merciless, but for another unrelenting force. The Reaper would never be useless again. It was a promise. It was a vow. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate