who we are and all that we're trying to be
The more he swung, the more fluid it became: the sword hardly whispering through the ether before crashing into the target’s frame; blistering and chaotic, belligerent and vehement, strong and stalwart as he breathed, as he eased into the formation of military man, tyrannical, abhorrent beast. The pattern and repetition was good for his brain, coiled into muscle memory, brought back days of glory and victory billowing beneath his jaw, along the inaudible growls and drumbeats within his chest. What he hadn’t expected was for the hushed decibels to suddenly be broken by applause - caught off guard (which was incredibly foolish, he’d been far too absorbed in his menace) – unaware he had an audience. He turned swiftly, eyes rounded and wide for a few seconds, catching the stranger in his sight, before lowering the blade and narrowing his gaze.
He only briefly recognized the figure: it might’ve been the same poor soul who’d spoken of beneficence and kindness at the latest open forum, only to be brutally chastised by their new monarch. What was he doing here then – amidst weapons and bombardments, amongst munitions and decadence – for the practice, the skills required in this arena likely didn’t align to Sascha’s. The Reaper’s head tilted, quiet, meticulous, machinating over and over again, uncertain about how to proceed with the level of jubilance and cheer serenading the signs of cloak and daggers. “I am,” he acknowledged his name, his existence – pondering over who would have recommended him to the younger, excitable, smaller man – the fathoms of his eyes shifting back over the carpenter’s figure. “What sort of training are you looking for?” Combat – fist to fist, knuckle to knuckle, blow for blow? Swordplay – the method of madness orchestrated and cultivated for barbaric lacerations and unjust scrapes upon the soul? Bow and arrow – the sheer strike from a reputable distance, allowing some safety from higher ground? He stuck the serrated tip of his sword into the grass, twisting the hilt, the pommel, back and forth, awaiting an indicative direction, where they should head – a nod brandished towards his array of weapons laying nearby.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
