who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos had never been one to judge someone based on their preferences to violence. Simply because he’d been entangled and embroiled amongst battlefields and wars, crusades and invasions from a young age didn’t mean others had to follow the same pathways: it was likely far better that they didn’t (lost souls somewhere within those meadows and tents; bombarded with ghosts, with catacombs, with loss and devastation). But he’d always regarded someone’s ability to try, to be willing to defend themselves, their friends, their families, their comrades, their allies, their teammates, so they weren’t a liability, so that someone didn’t find a weakness at the frontlines. The fact that Sascha wanted to better himself, despite the bizarre posing (which had the Reaper’s eyes rounding again, incapable of understanding what that particular presentation had even tried to portray), was enough of a good mark in the warrior’s book. Sascha wouldn’t lose his ability or focus on beneficence, even if Deimos didn’t always concur with the station in life, and should be able to at least buy himself some time to evade, escape, or naturally protect and secure himself.
“That is understandable.” Not a lie, not a condition to appease the other man, but a certainty: the world ahead might not be so brilliant and blinding, not with the Merciless drumming her fingers upon the throne, not with calculations spiraling overhead. Always something else. The warrior made no mention of his latest debacles: between caverns and tentacles, between fires and insects and poison. His gaze meandered to the collection of weapons nearby, placing his blade down, and grabbing hold of two wooden swords used primarily for training, as he’d done with Jigano recently, proffering one to the carpenter. “We can use these,” he nodded towards the timber munitions: blunter edges, not sharpened, not honed, made for bruising, made for the ancient, archaic swing, made for the practice and technique, the skill of impending battle. Sascha likely wasn’t headed in that direction, which was fine, but it could at least give him some experience in handling, in attempting. “You may grab a shield from over there.” He gestured to his pile of metallic bucklers, with various stages of detailing along the sides. “I can teach you some maneuvers for both assault and defense.” Then he gestured for the youth to follow, going further out back, where the fields were more open, the withering grass imploring them to venture into the landscape, to embark into vehement ends. He watched the other man over his shoulder, talking as they moved. “What do you already know?” An inquiry he often started with, simply to see where they could begin, what lines had already been crossed, so as not to waste time.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
