Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?With the orders in place, Deimos set to work creating the rightful munitions – lifting a brow at Jigano’s surprise comment, sending a minute amount of amusement through the attuned connections; the tale for another time – intrigued over the fusions of so many other individuals lately. His hands kindled and invoked powers once more, and billowing between palms in their gilded light were a series of crossbow bolts, to match the weapon he’d made for the bard in the previous season. When they were all a bit more hopeful, but warranted in their dread. He didn’t ask about the rest of the bolts and how they’d been discarded or abandoned; the stretches of failure had already brushed and pulsed against him with Kiada’s sorrow. There was no need to relive the horrors.
A bow for Sunjata – he glanced at him, studying, examining for a moment, then corresponded in making one similar to his own, with their bulk, brawn, and height similarities and differences, it would make sense. The panther’s, however, unfurled black, like Stygian, midnight oils, like gloaming, moonless evenings, and something akin to claw marks embedded along the bottom, subtle, but a marking of the owner.
As for Oliver, who’d already owned a knife and a staff (but didn’t seem to hold any preferences or inclinations; perhaps not someone experienced in wielding or owning them), he tilted his head for a moment, considering the man’s form. From his hands came a slender blade, a rapier, light, the handle nearly ivory, meant for quick, swift lacerations upon an opponent.
Once he’d granted them all the gifts and acknowledgments for their continued efforts, he proffered the slightest of smiles, crooked, but obliging all the same. “Feel free to use this space at any time.” Including the training grounds or the barracks themselves; open for their practice, drills, and attempts at precision.
A bow for Sunjata – he glanced at him, studying, examining for a moment, then corresponded in making one similar to his own, with their bulk, brawn, and height similarities and differences, it would make sense. The panther’s, however, unfurled black, like Stygian, midnight oils, like gloaming, moonless evenings, and something akin to claw marks embedded along the bottom, subtle, but a marking of the owner.
As for Oliver, who’d already owned a knife and a staff (but didn’t seem to hold any preferences or inclinations; perhaps not someone experienced in wielding or owning them), he tilted his head for a moment, considering the man’s form. From his hands came a slender blade, a rapier, light, the handle nearly ivory, meant for quick, swift lacerations upon an opponent.
Once he’d granted them all the gifts and acknowledgments for their continued efforts, he proffered the slightest of smiles, crooked, but obliging all the same. “Feel free to use this space at any time.” Including the training grounds or the barracks themselves; open for their practice, drills, and attempts at precision.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
