[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

He didn’t expect anyone to come looking for him – used to the isolation and detachments, even though they’d been slowly warming and thawing; the icy ramparts were still there, carved in and out of his muscles, out of his limbs, out of his bones. Instead, he simply struck again and again, maneuvering from one target to the each, giving no preamble or thought to inhabitants hearing the violent, vehement declarations, wood against wood, power and might somewhat restored to his refrain. But when it mattered – The Reaper’s thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful voice over the threshold, and he turned quickly, a swift measure for one so large, features once carved in dissolution and abandonment quirking a brow upwards, a soft chuckle huffed from his chest. “Depends on their skills.” It was a joke, a mocking manner, because he’d been well versed and born into a flood of battlefields, with ample tidings and talents spread across the divide. He’d seen green lads shaking in their boots on the front lines, no amount of training capable of processing the horror, the terror, the onslaught until it was right upon them, bashing in skulls and shields. He’d seen well-honed knights barraging their way through bodies, making their own paths aboard their destriers, had admired their strength, their abilities, until it was his turn to swindle, devise, and obliterate. The beast, the soldier, the warrior shrugged, lowering his sword so it etched its way into the grass. “I would say I do fairly well. In that cave though...” He ended the intonations there – Jigano would be allowed to guess on the circumstances surrounding the screams, the cries for help, the monsters layered within (how he’d nearly died, had it not been for Remi or Isla, how he was the most inept out of them all, hits barely landing, assault after assault mired and moored across his figure). But he read the lines in between Jigano’s speech, in the crooked notches of his grin, in the caged, rattled ambience of notice boards and papers he was meant to sign – right back into barracks and drumming tenors. Was the bard requesting an opportunity? “Are you willing?” Then his eyes drifted, narrowed and pinpointed on the pale-haired man’s broken arm. “And should you?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate