Training feeding the wolves
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 26 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 26
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,427
MP:
#15
DEIMOS
The hesitancy seemed to dissipate – he presumed she wasn’t comfortable, because that was who she was, discomfited with the notion of violence and blood splitting and spilling from veins, but there weren’t ghosts or wraiths hovering over her gaze. He would take it. That would be enough.

He missed her moment of admiration: too intent on displaying his barbaric intentions, where she would need to move and maneuver for these particular segments, placing his feet correctly, meticulously, fluid, as if it were only ingrained habits and rooted fragments pushing and pulling him into place. Sometimes it’d been the training, blistering and brilliant across fields, units coming together to perform, to ensure they knew what they were doing, how to accomplish their feats, their bloody triumphs, their monstrous inclinations. Sometimes it’d been instinct alone, trapped between blades and the ground, the breath of an enemy clambering in, persisting, pervading, until they altered the situation, the sights, the sounds.

The beast reset his stance, waited for hers to follow through – performing damaging dances and warrior waltzes, dagger caught by hers, pulled down, but she didn’t go with the next maneuver. It altered, and his brows furrowed slightly, uncertain, before she morphed and molded earlier formations into this one. “Clever,” he announced, intending to follow through on more than just his smirks and smiles, a grin dimpling into his cheek; but then the knife fell, blade on the ground. Instead, her hands were around his waist, and thought about making a quip, a joke, to settle the irresolution, but in the midst of silence there were only their bodies breathing, inhaling, exhaling, chests heaving.

She stayed there, and so did he, sheathing his dagger into his belt, lifting both hands to cover hers. Her words didn’t surprise him, not really, not in the folds of their previous maneuvers – she’d tried, and she had some notions tucked along the back of her head in case she required them. He didn’t expect her to enjoy the flourish of fighting, the quick, swift heartbeats between life, death, and how long they could avoid the harbinger of demise. He didn’t expect her to yearn to drive a blade into another’s flesh, twist, turn, until they were fallen and one was still alive – onto the next, the next, the next, a pattern worn into exhaustion, into fatigue. Keep going skulls would reverberate and echo. Keep going. If he hadn’t he’d be buried amongst his kin.

He didn’t wish that for her. He lowered his head to stare at her fingers wrapped along him, feeling her head somewhere along his shoulders and spine. “You fight in a different way.” He meandered in a smile she couldn’t see, lifting his cranium back up to stare at the garden, at the surroundings, at her innocent world he somehow managed to keep interrupting. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The kingdom does not need more barbarians.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 11 - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 30 - Luck: 30
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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Posts: 1,580
MP:
#16
Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
She lets the silence stretch a minute, her arms still wrapped around him, her fingers coiled up in his, her head on his back as she listens to him breathe, steady and constant and unperturbed. Dark eyes flutter closed; she lets the sounds of the garden wash over her, finds solace in them, in nature, in him. How he continues to never judge awes and infatuates the girl, makes her stomach drop out and her throat run dry and color blaze upon her cheeks. Is this what it is, to be accepted?

To be loved?

"Barbarians, hmm?" Her hand traces slowly over his chest as she chuckles a little, her laugh a low hum. "Is that what you are? A barbarian knight? It explains the beard." Her hands go up to play with the offending mane as she speaks, twining longer strands into braids. Exhaling heavily, Amalia eases away, her fingers lingering on his skin as she winds her way around to face him, hands traveling down his arms until their fingers meet. Lingering there a moment, safe in his embrace, the baker gazes at the reaper, her dark eyes expressive and subdued.

Releasing his hands at last, Amalia steps further away, lowering herself to sit in the grass, the shield still resting in her hands. "Maybe you can show me?" Almost shyly, almost bashful: show me everything. Show me it all. As much as it scares her, she wants all he is. If he will accept her weakness, she will accept his strength.
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 26 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 26
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,427
MP:
#17
DEIMOS
The comfortable atmosphere seemed to linger back into the stead – the doldrums quantified and misshapen, reforming into something else; her fingers lingering on his chest, head twisting back over his shoulder to try and peer at her. “You seem very preoccupied with my beard.” Insinuations about whether he was barbarian, knight, or a combination thereof would have to wait – she’d managed to sidle around while tending to the longer strands – he did roll his eyes at those notions and strived to pull away before she braided and chorded them into neat little sections.

But then they were together again, and he could breathe, stagnant for a few seconds, piecing and fitting into their molds; the seditious and the pious, the sword and the shield. Their eyes met and he simply stared, taking everything for what it was worth, the impassioned endeavors, the trials and errors, the way they always tried despite modicums of differences and altered comparisons.

Then she wavered and waved into the grass, maybe you can show me on the air, on the lingering eaves, on the garden and its wares – and for a moment he thought about not doing so and denying her the sight. Perhaps it’d be too violent, and she’d shy away from him, afraid of his capabilities, of the only way he knew how to paint brushstrokes on canvas (blood on battlefields; streaks of ichor on dust, dirt, and soil). Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, and she’d think him unworthy again, somehow, someway. Perhaps it was a test he couldn’t fathom or understand. Perhaps she really just wanted to see what he could do –

The calculations sputtered and waned in his mind, eyes ghosting away from her and over to the rest of their makeshift arena – hands raised in an assemblage of incantations as a target formed before him. “It will not be the same as a true adversary,” he intoned and warned, as if to ready her for disappointment – not a real, tangible show of power and dominion, of weapons, of weight, of might. This one couldn’t fight back. This one couldn’t pierce through him. This one could be defeated with no soldier distinction.

But he attempted anyway – not even bothering to step back, practicing the fluid movements he’d gone over with her, except there was naught to guard, so the prestige and prowess were in muscle memory, in rippling flesh, in undulating sinew. The warrior, the soldier, came back within a moment, eyes dark and fixated on his impending victim, the target’s demise hinted at through his quick, swift motions: the sudden slashes along its neck, down its torso, and across its stomach. The stuffing peeled out of it quickly, and when he stepped back to survey the damage, he merely shrugged, gaze roaming back to hers – waiting for something (expecting fear; hoping for approval).
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 11 - Strg: 30 - Dext: 30 - Endr: 30 - Luck: 30
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,580
MP:
#18
Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
"I've never had a lover with a beard before." The words slip easily from her lips, still distracted by darker thoughts, inadequacies and insurrection, violence and bloodshed. Her fingers fidget anxious and absent in the strands of his hair, slipping down his neck and down to his hands as she pulls away. She searches for solace in the blue of his eyes, a haven from the storm clouds that darken her own. And when at last she finds it the girl exhales, the ghost of a smile returning to her lips.

Settling into a patch of grass Amalia upturns her ardent gaze. The shield tucked between her hands spins and slips beneath anxious fingers as Deimos begins to move, his magic spinning training dummies out of the air, the knife still in his grasp. Unsure what to expect but anticipating barbaric interludes and wanton aggression, Amalia waits for the man to begin, his art made mainfest in her eyes.

It is with the gracefulness of a cat he makes the first strike, calculated and delicate, a pointed, planned, poetic sweep. And again, and again- and the girl's breath catches as she watches, wide-eyed, something hot in her chest. The surprising beauty of his motions really isn't so unexpected: she has come to realize he carries grace, an artists mind and an acolyte's focus beneath the silent facade. He is a thing of nature, and the blade is his arm; he is violence and triumph, and gods, it is hot.

When at last he turns to face her Amalia has to swallow, blinking dark and hooded eyes as she regards him, unabashed. Rising lightly to her feet she clears her throat again. "Come in for breakfast?" Her voice is a little husky, the rest of the invitation left unsaid. "I have some extra time before I have to open shop."
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds \ Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 7 - Strg: 26 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 28 - Luck: 26
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,427
MP:
#19
DEIMOS
The art of battle was ingrained, innate, inherent, contortions and distortions to him that would never truly leave; an eternal part of his movements, from the way he maneuvered in savage ministrations, to the arch and lilt of his stride, built for intimidation, for tracking adversaries, for following their measures and pulverizing their missteps. It came with practice and training, multiple lifetimes of honing in on disaster and melees, of rushing across open fields and circumventing sieges meant to take him down, of quick, feral, nefarious predilections that meant life or death. It was violent through and through, vehement and wild, savage and untamed, postured in the highlight of his blade as it slashed down and down, along imaginary torsos and bleeding incorporeal ichor. It haunted his dreams. It enhanced his beliefs. It followed him with every breath and every pulse, every incandescent, infernal beat of his rapacious, ravenous heart.

And if she didn’t, couldn’t, quite fathom its existence –

But as his eyes snapped back over to hers, hands busy with collapsing the dummies back into a satchel, her features were very clear on what she thought about the tactics, the sway, the brushstrokes of battle.

He swallowed something breathless down, down, down, at her hooded eyes and husky voice; incised, enticed, inveigled in too many other directions now, the spinning wheels of weapons gone and gone with a snap. He managed to somehow pick up all the munitions he’d left about, placing the bag nearby for when he returned to grasp its threshold. The beast wasn’t about to shy away and leave an invitation drifting out into the wind, an emboldened motion later and he was hovering above her, swift to respond with a Cheshire grin and a thousand other insinuations on the depths of his tongue, on his mouth, on his lips. “Of course.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky


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