DEIMOS
Deimos’ form of poetry, musings, painting, singing, or dancing was blended into battle. Music was in the rhythm of the drumbeats, in the outcries of the burdened and distraught, singing in the trumpets blaring their actions, their movements, the waltz one of pure abhorrence, greed, and avarice, swords cutting, men dying, nefarious interloping gathered amidst fields, brushstrokes staining them red. It didn’t terrify him. It didn’t concern him. It was as natural as breathing; too instilled, too ingrained, too impressed upon his soul to even think for a moment about the abject cruelties, the rippling tides of war – still there, still there, still there, after he’d buried countless friends in the ground. These were his masterpieces and oeuvres, stanzas for the dead, for the living, for the enduring, for the persevering, for the ones who’d never cry again and for the ones who relived the horrors behind their eyes.
And now, it was protection and defense. He’d teach her as much as he could, as much as she was willing to grasp; not to make her a murderer, not to make her a soldier, not to make her as unholy, as irreverent, as blighted and scarred and immoral as himself, but to ensure she was safe.
They were fine lines – but he’d make sure he was the only one who crossed them.
He watched as she accepted the shield, as he took naught in his hands but an empty grasp and a dagger in the other, as she took hold of a fighting pose. “Daggers, unlike swords, are for close combat. So they are treated differently. I will show you a few attacking and defensive manuevers,” he uttered. He tilted his head, inclined towards her, fingers light and gentle as he drew her shoulder blades back, lifted her shield high too. “This one is for assault purposes. You already have a good, solid stance with your feet. Engage your core as you draw your shoulders back. You can use more power that way. Keep your shield high. It will give you an opportunity to block my dagger.” He mimicked the stance, going to stand in front of her, weapon poised in his hand, other up high, ready for when she followed through – his munitions wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t maim her, but he wanted her to see the motion.
Not so much the violence – but she already knew that about him: what he was capable of, how he’d destroyed, how he’d massacred, how he’d willingly do it again for anyone he’d sworn to guard.
In one swift descent, he thrust the dagger downwards, along the air in front of her neck, as if it were to go through her throat, then continued the maneuver, away from her skin, away from her form, but allowing her to visualize the outcome: a mess for an enemy, an onslaught of torn veins, muscle, and flesh. Given no defense at all, the likelihood of a flayed chest or abdomen was high, and depending on the amount of brawn and strength in the individual, it could be quite costly for their adversary. He backed away from her, portraying the stance once more, lifting his head in a gesture of good faith that she wouldn’t decimate him. “You try.”
And now, it was protection and defense. He’d teach her as much as he could, as much as she was willing to grasp; not to make her a murderer, not to make her a soldier, not to make her as unholy, as irreverent, as blighted and scarred and immoral as himself, but to ensure she was safe.
They were fine lines – but he’d make sure he was the only one who crossed them.
He watched as she accepted the shield, as he took naught in his hands but an empty grasp and a dagger in the other, as she took hold of a fighting pose. “Daggers, unlike swords, are for close combat. So they are treated differently. I will show you a few attacking and defensive manuevers,” he uttered. He tilted his head, inclined towards her, fingers light and gentle as he drew her shoulder blades back, lifted her shield high too. “This one is for assault purposes. You already have a good, solid stance with your feet. Engage your core as you draw your shoulders back. You can use more power that way. Keep your shield high. It will give you an opportunity to block my dagger.” He mimicked the stance, going to stand in front of her, weapon poised in his hand, other up high, ready for when she followed through – his munitions wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t maim her, but he wanted her to see the motion.
Not so much the violence – but she already knew that about him: what he was capable of, how he’d destroyed, how he’d massacred, how he’d willingly do it again for anyone he’d sworn to guard.
In one swift descent, he thrust the dagger downwards, along the air in front of her neck, as if it were to go through her throat, then continued the maneuver, away from her skin, away from her form, but allowing her to visualize the outcome: a mess for an enemy, an onslaught of torn veins, muscle, and flesh. Given no defense at all, the likelihood of a flayed chest or abdomen was high, and depending on the amount of brawn and strength in the individual, it could be quite costly for their adversary. He backed away from her, portraying the stance once more, lifting his head in a gesture of good faith that she wouldn’t decimate him. “You try.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
