Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
The familiarity of strength recoiled, the drawn, tethered lines of the potent magic receding and compelling – beseeching and leeching from another, how he’d stolen lives in our other worlds, how he’d snagged and brutalized and warned and they’d refused to leave. Except this kingdom was different, and the prowess of the sliding iniquities fettered back into his lungs, into his dark, harbored, harpooned soul, eyes narrowed to watch over what feral regard Loren would unleash.
Water, but honed and turned to ice – and any other time he would relish its sanctity, alive and well and whole in the cold, in the reaches of paralyzing chill, in the rush and release of chilling, formidable, strong, enduring capabilities. It wouldn’t have bothered him, to be encased in its familiar embrace; like brambles and nettles of places that were home, distinct and clear, mountain ranges, rising towards heavens he would permitted within. Except to be sheltered in its calamity now wouldn’t have been entertainment, wouldn’t have been a show, and so he only smirked at its edges, its fringes, another goodbye to an old, dear friend – before flames billowed back along his surface, his palm, melting the blocks before they could lance or lace upon his skin.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun.
Well done the Sword presided towards the Launcelyn, insistent praise earned and respected, and then a shuddering of breath, a loosening of a sigh, a withholding of pain as the burns, the bruises, and the claw marks reigned their existence upon his own. Masking it entirely, save for moments of clenched jaws, a spiraling wince from someone else (Jigano?), he turned back towards those gathered, who’d deigned them worthy of a spectacle enough to bear witness to feats of strength, to trials and tribulations. “Thank you all for coming. I hope we provided entertainment and a brief insight into some of our defenses.” The slightest of smiles, an indentation of mischief in the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t last long, as Zuriel bounded along the perimeter, irritation flickering through their connection. He ignored her for the moment, still gesturing towards the audience, and then back to the haphazard waste of fallen weapons. “Please look over anything within the militia stall.” Maybe they would ask questions. Maybe there would be some interest. Maybe getting themselves torn apart would mean something to someone. Maybe it would encourage or inspire.
Then he stepped over the boundaries, the unicorn’s glare fixated on him as she approached with a haughty, indignant sigh, the glow of her horn fixating on the marks, the bruises, the burns, while he intended to set the munitions rack to rights.
Water, but honed and turned to ice – and any other time he would relish its sanctity, alive and well and whole in the cold, in the reaches of paralyzing chill, in the rush and release of chilling, formidable, strong, enduring capabilities. It wouldn’t have bothered him, to be encased in its familiar embrace; like brambles and nettles of places that were home, distinct and clear, mountain ranges, rising towards heavens he would permitted within. Except to be sheltered in its calamity now wouldn’t have been entertainment, wouldn’t have been a show, and so he only smirked at its edges, its fringes, another goodbye to an old, dear friend – before flames billowed back along his surface, his palm, melting the blocks before they could lance or lace upon his skin.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun.
Well done the Sword presided towards the Launcelyn, insistent praise earned and respected, and then a shuddering of breath, a loosening of a sigh, a withholding of pain as the burns, the bruises, and the claw marks reigned their existence upon his own. Masking it entirely, save for moments of clenched jaws, a spiraling wince from someone else (Jigano?), he turned back towards those gathered, who’d deigned them worthy of a spectacle enough to bear witness to feats of strength, to trials and tribulations. “Thank you all for coming. I hope we provided entertainment and a brief insight into some of our defenses.” The slightest of smiles, an indentation of mischief in the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t last long, as Zuriel bounded along the perimeter, irritation flickering through their connection. He ignored her for the moment, still gesturing towards the audience, and then back to the haphazard waste of fallen weapons. “Please look over anything within the militia stall.” Maybe they would ask questions. Maybe there would be some interest. Maybe getting themselves torn apart would mean something to someone. Maybe it would encourage or inspire.
Then he stepped over the boundaries, the unicorn’s glare fixated on him as she approached with a haughty, indignant sigh, the glow of her horn fixating on the marks, the bruises, the burns, while he intended to set the munitions rack to rights.
DEIMOS
