legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
He watched, waited, a scholar as must as a warrior – intrigued by whatever demonstration was due to erupt. His stance remained the same, ready, eager, fervent for some sort of fray. As the blade was swung, she pinpointed it towards the ground, thankfully avoiding segmenting and riveting it back upon him, and he could only be a bystander as it bludgeoned snow, rime, and loam, leaving pockets and patches of earth completely removed, scattered in bits and pieces. He studied it for a moment, reflecting on the nature of the sword, on the weaponry, on the munitions; something, if given an altercation with him or anyone else containing those specific magics, could be quite costly.
Good thing they were only training.
He did manage to orchestrate the smallest of smirks, a nod of his head almost like a bow. “Impressive.” Then, raising his own sword, he maneuvered, swiftly, quickly, towards her. “What can you do without enchantments?” It was a soldier’s worth, to test mettle, to prosper strength and prowess; but there were no rooted abhorrence here, no shades of wrath, fighter to fighter, plying and wielding, cultivating probabilities, possibilities, and mere practice. There hadn’t been too many others amidst this region that could claim prior experiences – war drums and trumpet blasts, dead bodies riddling and scarring, catacombs and the endless pinnacles of ivory tents. This wasn’t a do your worst invitation; just an invocation to days long since gone.
So he raised his blade towards her right shoulder in an upwards slash, intending to see how she defended – no full brawn or power attached.
Good thing they were only training.
He did manage to orchestrate the smallest of smirks, a nod of his head almost like a bow. “Impressive.” Then, raising his own sword, he maneuvered, swiftly, quickly, towards her. “What can you do without enchantments?” It was a soldier’s worth, to test mettle, to prosper strength and prowess; but there were no rooted abhorrence here, no shades of wrath, fighter to fighter, plying and wielding, cultivating probabilities, possibilities, and mere practice. There hadn’t been too many others amidst this region that could claim prior experiences – war drums and trumpet blasts, dead bodies riddling and scarring, catacombs and the endless pinnacles of ivory tents. This wasn’t a do your worst invitation; just an invocation to days long since gone.
So he raised his blade towards her right shoulder in an upwards slash, intending to see how she defended – no full brawn or power attached.
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
