we're all killers
War had made him almost entirely immune, a numbing venture, to the way lives were always so perilously lost – fallen, fallen, fallen in the heat of battle, in the wake of trying to survive, in trying to protect, in trying to make it another day, another hour, another second. Perhaps it had done the same to Wessex – but not Amalia. Because while he listened about portal options, about things that likely shouldn’t even matter anymore, things flickering apart in his ribs, in his lungs, the Shield ignited.
His eyes slid over as the taut coils loosened, as he could feel it within Attuned bonds, a warning, a progression, and then an opus, a masterful unleashing of claws, of horns, of snarls, of all the sharpened measures suddenly streamlined back into the void – fire and vitriol and vehemence shaping in her accord. It was fascinating, exhilarating, and fully supported, a pride instilled in the connection, releasing the encouragement, the strength, the fortitude, the might, instilled within his framework as she sculpted and carved into the expanse. A drum, a tower, rising from where he leaned against bookshelves, Amalia’s message clear – whether or not Wessex would adhere, would acknowledge, or if everything would continue to flicker and fall apart, the damage done, unhinged. Then a length of calm and composure in between, striving to infuse some cool contortion to the air that wasn’t all bedlam and mayhem.
Perhaps it was just too late. Actions unraveling, consequences, rebuttals, the world maneuvering, twisting, and curling back in on itself.
His eyes slid over as the taut coils loosened, as he could feel it within Attuned bonds, a warning, a progression, and then an opus, a masterful unleashing of claws, of horns, of snarls, of all the sharpened measures suddenly streamlined back into the void – fire and vitriol and vehemence shaping in her accord. It was fascinating, exhilarating, and fully supported, a pride instilled in the connection, releasing the encouragement, the strength, the fortitude, the might, instilled within his framework as she sculpted and carved into the expanse. A drum, a tower, rising from where he leaned against bookshelves, Amalia’s message clear – whether or not Wessex would adhere, would acknowledge, or if everything would continue to flicker and fall apart, the damage done, unhinged. Then a length of calm and composure in between, striving to infuse some cool contortion to the air that wasn’t all bedlam and mayhem.
Perhaps it was just too late. Actions unraveling, consequences, rebuttals, the world maneuvering, twisting, and curling back in on itself.
DEIMOS
