[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

It was another beginning, a commencement and emergence, a shift in schemes and scopes. He still bore the bard no grudge, except perhaps for the excessive chatter, and after the events at the Fae Village, there hadn’t been anything else broken or mired in their wake. Thus far, the rest of the world continued, unraveled, bit back – the repose shaken and gone, the contented swell of Fiat Lux like a distance thing of the past. If he were ever in disbelief, he might’ve thought it never even occurred, the exultations, the exuberance, the diversions, antics, adoration, flickered and died out on the seething particles of so many things thereafter. So there they were, here and back again, striving to unravel the hows, the whys, the whens, the wheres – and if anything would come of it. “We were outside the cave,” he began, memories shifting to the outcries of rubble and ruin. “There had been a landslide, and we could hear screaming. So we went in to help.” Which sounded simplistic, when it had been anything but: from the moment they arrived, he was barraged and sieged upon, broken, whittled, carved back into the foundation of the earth – as if he was meant to be buried alongside the others, an earthen tomb, straight into the mountains, just like before. “Once we made our way inside, we were attacked by tentacles.” He couldn’t name the beast from within: a giant squid, an enormous octopus, some other unidentified creature making its home where it didn’t belong? “I had never felt so powerless.” Quite possibly a lie – there had been a set time on his hands and knees, begging, pleading, for assistance when nothing else seemed probable – but in those shaking, shocking moments, where he was stung and mauled and stifled, where naught he did really mattered, it had set him down a barbarous path. He thought he might have sunk straight in there, never to return, too weak, too stupid, too pathetic, rotting and withering and decaying amidst the screams and torrents. “I would be dead if it were not for Remi and Isla.” The truth stuck out, released from the edges of his throat, a method, a measure, to indicate his current outlook and madness. On a collected whisper, he pointedly glanced at Jigano, recalling his ability to stretch tales and overshare. “You do not need to repeat that to Amalia.” But as the pale-haired man wove his tale of Ronin, the materials and outlines fit. Perhaps they’d been changed, altered, flawed again once descending into their makeshift portals, once snagged and taken into this newfound land. He’d been a magnificent opus of power, of death, of destruction before, when the world feared his existence, when they shook in terror at his presence, when he breathed melee and oblivion. He’d been a survivor, brandishing his sword and depleting enemies, adversaries, as they came to bellow and maul his own. “It makes sense.” It was easier than saying he’d become an imminent failure, easier than saying he’d lost more than just prestige, prowess, potential, and ability. The Reaper nodded, adding reasons for his conduct, for the sword held in his hand, for the targets lined up. “So we must build ourselves back up again.” To be better the land blistered and seethed; simmering and smoldering without his input. Deimos’ eyes followed the path of the rapier, only widening his eyes a little in surprise, not expecting the bard to be one immersed in combat. He seemed like the kind of creature to whittle his way out of most conflicts, either by grins or sagacity, discourse until it unraveled his opponents. But as he picked up the wooden sword, the warrior could tell its weight was unfamiliar in his hand, the way he wrinkled his nose – it would make sense, given the slight edge of the rapier. “I can adjust the balance, if you require it.” He tilted his head, watching, watching, watching, spun into silence as Jigano listed off his experiences: teams, not much different form his armies, his companies, his fellow men – but the faces altered, changed, at any notice, as blades shifted, as bodies clattered, as forms fell and more rose to take their places. “To new teams then,” the soldier smirked, and then advanced. It was a pattern, cyclical, etched and sketched out of his basic training, hips and weight evenly balanced, sword settled around his right shoulder. His movement was fluid, backed by years of rituals and practice, a lively, violent, vehement tirade that ignited his gaze into unrelenting parables (a tease, a ruse, a taunt), drawing his sword forward, testing out Jigano’s reflexes, defenses. He stepped to the left, attempting to be out of the line of attack, then intended to bring his blade straight down, striving to tap at Jigano’s right shoulder. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate