DEIMOS
Zuriel was a quiet force, surveying, scrutinizing, not unlike her bonded – but quicker to erode from the distance and detachment. The starwhale’s approach was noted with a dip of her noble head, recognizing stars and cosmos, constellations and celestial beings, pieces of the heavens where she’d been christened and anointed amidst the regal earth. She was old as time too, one of those primordial things who’d willingly sacrificed her freedom, her liberation, to another beast – the depth of her eyes lingering on Deimos in the outer arena of the garden, then sliding quietly back to the advancing Jyoti. At the croons, at the songs, she raised her head, embarked a soft nicker in return, stepping out from the shadows in light, petalsoft movements.
The Reaper could feel the unicorn remaining on the outset, but was further distracted by the being in front of him. If the baker kept looking at him like that: seductive, wanton, deliberately yearning, longing, smoke and fumes of desire, there’d only be training of the carnal kind. An inkling in his mind expressed that their future endeavors would be more difficult than he surmised; not for her lack of violence, but because he was going to be driven to constant, potential diversions. The temptation was already listlessly there, toying in his nefarious, iniquitous mind, replacing the notion of swinging swords with more seductive qualities, and he willed his notions to spiral back into vehemence and not intertwined forms, moans, gasps, whispers of skin-
He shook his head and watched as she chose one of the daggers he’d brought, selecting its twin a moment later, grasping hold of the smaller weapon in his calloused grasp. It was lighter than his broadswords and cutlasses, a more intimate munition, and he arched his brow at her selection, pondering over the wiles likely brewing along her cranium. He’d promised her training, but never asked why; presuming it wasn’t because it was one of his favored activities, stoking and inciting savagery and barbarity, an explosion of movement and motion when he required its cruel efforts. She’d never expressed any outward sign or enjoyment towards force and fervor – in fact, he figured she’d be amidst the few who shrank from it, committed to repose, peace, and prosperity. But maybe, with all the recent entanglements, from the rise of the Merciless, to the Spire’s collapse, and the capturing of her soul, and others, from the Fae, she’d simply been pushed into this role. The world had altered, morphed, and restructured itself; they had to do the same, protecting their brethren and themselves. Even if she didn’t take to the conditions of fighting, of breaking apart one’s adversary, of mauling and stabbing and lacerating, just having the ability to defend herself would give the warrior a sense of relief.
The Reaper’s stare segmented back to the weapon extended before him. “Good,” he acknowledged her decision, and only gave her a slightly flattened look when she required a shield as well. He hadn’t brought any of them with him, his bag would’ve been overloaded and a chore to slog down the roads with another range of hilts, hues, and weights for her to consider. Within a moment, he’d pressed his hands together and then pulled them apart: between the sizzling canals of gold and gilded ether, a steel formation took shape, until it was a metallic shape, edged, several dips at the top, then angled and sketched downwards. It was all silver, made purposefully light, easier for her to maneuver, the etching skilled and outlined in stars. He passed it to her without fanfare, then stepped away from the piles of weaponry, left there in case she changed her mind later. He tossed the dagger back and forth, flipping the handle, then catching it on the rotation swiftly, quickly, reminding his muscles, his hands, his grasp of precision, days of old, meant to be rekindled and brought to the forefront. It surged with a discordant harmony, singing its malevolent tune beneath his skin.
When he pressed into an open area, beckoning her to join him, he examined her assumed stance. “What do you already know?” Had she already learned how to defend herself properly? How to ground her frame? How to duck and evade? How to stab? How to condemn?
The Reaper could feel the unicorn remaining on the outset, but was further distracted by the being in front of him. If the baker kept looking at him like that: seductive, wanton, deliberately yearning, longing, smoke and fumes of desire, there’d only be training of the carnal kind. An inkling in his mind expressed that their future endeavors would be more difficult than he surmised; not for her lack of violence, but because he was going to be driven to constant, potential diversions. The temptation was already listlessly there, toying in his nefarious, iniquitous mind, replacing the notion of swinging swords with more seductive qualities, and he willed his notions to spiral back into vehemence and not intertwined forms, moans, gasps, whispers of skin-
He shook his head and watched as she chose one of the daggers he’d brought, selecting its twin a moment later, grasping hold of the smaller weapon in his calloused grasp. It was lighter than his broadswords and cutlasses, a more intimate munition, and he arched his brow at her selection, pondering over the wiles likely brewing along her cranium. He’d promised her training, but never asked why; presuming it wasn’t because it was one of his favored activities, stoking and inciting savagery and barbarity, an explosion of movement and motion when he required its cruel efforts. She’d never expressed any outward sign or enjoyment towards force and fervor – in fact, he figured she’d be amidst the few who shrank from it, committed to repose, peace, and prosperity. But maybe, with all the recent entanglements, from the rise of the Merciless, to the Spire’s collapse, and the capturing of her soul, and others, from the Fae, she’d simply been pushed into this role. The world had altered, morphed, and restructured itself; they had to do the same, protecting their brethren and themselves. Even if she didn’t take to the conditions of fighting, of breaking apart one’s adversary, of mauling and stabbing and lacerating, just having the ability to defend herself would give the warrior a sense of relief.
The Reaper’s stare segmented back to the weapon extended before him. “Good,” he acknowledged her decision, and only gave her a slightly flattened look when she required a shield as well. He hadn’t brought any of them with him, his bag would’ve been overloaded and a chore to slog down the roads with another range of hilts, hues, and weights for her to consider. Within a moment, he’d pressed his hands together and then pulled them apart: between the sizzling canals of gold and gilded ether, a steel formation took shape, until it was a metallic shape, edged, several dips at the top, then angled and sketched downwards. It was all silver, made purposefully light, easier for her to maneuver, the etching skilled and outlined in stars. He passed it to her without fanfare, then stepped away from the piles of weaponry, left there in case she changed her mind later. He tossed the dagger back and forth, flipping the handle, then catching it on the rotation swiftly, quickly, reminding his muscles, his hands, his grasp of precision, days of old, meant to be rekindled and brought to the forefront. It surged with a discordant harmony, singing its malevolent tune beneath his skin.
When he pressed into an open area, beckoning her to join him, he examined her assumed stance. “What do you already know?” Had she already learned how to defend herself properly? How to ground her frame? How to duck and evade? How to stab? How to condemn?
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
