Hurt so Good

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Training; their continuous cycle of growth and purpose, renewal in expertise. It made sense, the way Jigano explained; the newfound skills, the foreign nature of his recent acquiring, enchantments and invocations he might not have otherwise known before now. Testing limitations, and not resting on laurels, was always something the beast could agree with – orchestrating the same on his own, over and over again, repeated drills, movements, rhythms in warfare, so they became inherent, inborn, no thought required on extensions of limbs, on machinations unraveling, sure and certain, there within an instant, within a breath. He was just surprised Jigano was asking him. There were other mages to inquire upon, other sorcerers with softer, lighter magic, or capable of puncturing, of piercing, with something not so grave and treacherous. If it said anything about the Sword, and his willing, undaunted notions to wound, to maim, to devastate. Or perhaps that was what the bard wanted; the rise of iniquity, the nefarious, haunting qualities of life leaving, of pervading peril sinking into frames and figures; leeching at lungs, scraping at skin, flesh, and bone. Maybe it’d be a true test of limitations and quandaries, at potency and power, at prowess and enveloping junctures; just like he’d orchestrated with Loren, when they’d brandished incantation after incantation, rising one right after the other. He tucked away the sigh billowing through his chest, uncertain if this was wise. “If you wish,” he proffered to each of the statements: if he craved the nuances of death in order to mend and soothe, if he wanted undulations of power pressing against him until he was satisfied with the results, if he intended to lend his assistance to the militia. While Deimos would have no use for further healers, it didn’t mean others couldn’t utilize the notions, the incantations, especially if Loren was busy, otherwise occupied. His eyes flickered back and forth over Jigano, pondering, a thousand inquiries tucked into their depths, and none of them voiced. “We can go out back.” He maneuvered away from the door then, shutting it closed once Jigano was within, and then turned towards the hall, maneuvering down its length and opening the door that led to the training grounds. Several targets laid horribly misshapen and mangled nearby, in desperate need of repair from his and Sunjata’s latest catapult experimentation, the aforementioned device tucked carefully in the corner, waiting for further employ. He meandered down into the cleared sanction, open and wide and vast, naught in their path except soil and grass. “Let me know when you are ready,” he nodded, marching towards the opposite sanction, then turning back towards the bard when they had enough space between the two. “And if you have reached your limit.” Whoever hit it first. Deimos recalled the distant refrain of his exhaustion, of fatigue he’d never felt, bristling and brandished across his muscles, his mind, a hint, a warning, an emblem; too much, too much, too much. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate