legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
His brow remained arched, pondering if he wasn’t being clued in on the potency because he was about to be blasted to smithereens. Roana didn’t seem the type to furtively exploit and then destroy; but due to his pursuits on and off the battlefield, his experiences in deceptive, duplicitous demons, his trust had been adapted to very few. His stare still registered upon the blade, watching her draw it, dragon heads and massive claymores not-withstanding, bewitched and enchanted somehow so she seemed capable of wearing its weight with ease. He pondered over its other capabilities – if this Krosis was somehow meant to devour or consume magic, especially ones so specific, and fortunately for her, some of the abilities he wielded.
With an inhale, he grabbed hold of his own sword, and prepared for something close to the inevitable; likely foolish and ridiculous on his part. And while he too took a stance, his movements weren’t dictated towards her, obliging in the fellow soldier’s request because curiosity, inquiry, machinations, and calculations were temporarily unfurling past apprehension, consternation, and every other warning sign his brain repeated and reverberated.
The only motions that advanced was the magic, slinking, serpentine, and sinuous. His invocations slid, uncoiled, unraveling, untethered, unbound, a relish over his senses, a barbaric twist to his veins. Familiar and comfortable, deadly and nefarious, they cooled past his being on a silent throng, on an invisible, intangible presence, basking solely for the blade, for her.
With an inhale, he grabbed hold of his own sword, and prepared for something close to the inevitable; likely foolish and ridiculous on his part. And while he too took a stance, his movements weren’t dictated towards her, obliging in the fellow soldier’s request because curiosity, inquiry, machinations, and calculations were temporarily unfurling past apprehension, consternation, and every other warning sign his brain repeated and reverberated.
The only motions that advanced was the magic, slinking, serpentine, and sinuous. His invocations slid, uncoiled, unraveling, untethered, unbound, a relish over his senses, a barbaric twist to his veins. Familiar and comfortable, deadly and nefarious, they cooled past his being on a silent throng, on an invisible, intangible presence, basking solely for the blade, for her.
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
