prehistoric

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts Perhaps Deimos had thought of Thranduil’s recollection and comparison simply to ensure he’d make the gilded beast uncomfortable, even for a just a moment in time. Turn-about was fair play, and he’d made the Reaper cringe more than once. “Doubtful,” the Sword replied, though he seemed to have thawed a little, withholding a snort at the presumption of learning something new, or that the snake turned human was actually eager to learn – a jocular motion or two attached. There was a glimmer of a snicker on his mouth, but he said naught else until his palms had started to glow, kindling silent incantations and ministrations between his calloused hands. When he was finished, he carried a long spear, slightly barbed on the tips; its intended purposes not for pure weaponry (and he was somewhat less eager now to hand the other man a munition; perhaps he could always break if need to save the rest of the human race) – but for hunting. He meandered to a nearby rock, only a swiveling head nod beckoning the stranger closer. In demonstration, he lifted the spear slightly, at a slant, waiting for the glimmer of scales nearby; on an abrupt movement, the movement and motion of tails, he plunged, rapid and swift, before extracting it with a fish dangling, trembling, shuddering, on the end. Taking it off the tip, he added the fish to his bucket, and then handed the spear to the man. “Wait until you see the scales. Hold it at an angle, then sink it in quickly.” Then he stepped back, casually observing. the last of a line of lasts