DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
A sigh coiled its way through him; because maybe he’d been stumbling and bumbling around feeling inadequate and inexperienced, instead of truly taking the challenge on. The entire occurrence was overwhelming, flickering through his brain with a constant zeal of predacious fervor, strangled by the more human convictions of upheaval, dares, provocations, and the simmering, brewing contortions of ineptitude. But wasn't that how far was too - not waiting for anyone to regard it, study it, control and contort it? It was a stark reminder: his movements betrayed him, incapable of hiding behind a stoic interval, a calm, composed position, when everything maneuvered in a more direct way – no reticence, no hidden, tucked away nuances, muscles all coiled and eager for the fray; he was the only one seemingly caught in the lines of the unversed and bewildered.
Pull yourself together his thoughts meandered and slipped, just to himself, striving to slip past these nettles and barbs of irritation.
Because Amalia was excited and he should’ve been too, to have the capability of mauling and fighting in such a form meant for it; perhaps far more than the figure and entity he was used to.
He leapt, trying to entangle himself into the fervency, find the amusement, the play, the diversions, and she appeared to try and do the same. There was an abrupt movement of limbs anywhere and everywhere, her launch not successful in vaulting over his form, crashing somewhere along his shoulders and neck. The shock of it all ricocheted a growl through his form, and then her long legs were scrambling along him, as if to push him down, down, down, and he’d been a fighter, a warrior, for far too long to ever believe in sinking into the mire. He stumbled back, but forced himself to remain upright, far more of a struggle than he’d like to admit – pushing his brawn, his might, his shoulders, his bulk, back into her frame.
Pull yourself together his thoughts meandered and slipped, just to himself, striving to slip past these nettles and barbs of irritation.
Because Amalia was excited and he should’ve been too, to have the capability of mauling and fighting in such a form meant for it; perhaps far more than the figure and entity he was used to.
He leapt, trying to entangle himself into the fervency, find the amusement, the play, the diversions, and she appeared to try and do the same. There was an abrupt movement of limbs anywhere and everywhere, her launch not successful in vaulting over his form, crashing somewhere along his shoulders and neck. The shock of it all ricocheted a growl through his form, and then her long legs were scrambling along him, as if to push him down, down, down, and he’d been a fighter, a warrior, for far too long to ever believe in sinking into the mire. He stumbled back, but forced himself to remain upright, far more of a struggle than he’d like to admit – pushing his brawn, his might, his shoulders, his bulk, back into her frame.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
