DEIMOS
No true victor; both suns snagged and caught, stark reminders that for all his prowess on the battlefield in human form (the inherent, instinctive abilities; the way swords clashed and lacerated, brutalized and slashed), he was a relative novice when it came to aerial combat. More time, more patience, more practice – in perhaps all of his attuned predilections – would be worth savoring. He descended, ultimately landing, wings spread to flap, reconvene in their ruffled presence, then settling against his sienna frame, marked upon the training grounds, talons digging into the dirt.
In the face of Jigano’s gratitude, its denizens shifting through the bonds of collected animals and their fabrications, he almost felt nothing – except perhaps a sort of disappointment in himself, the knack for needing to be better, stronger, faster, enough in any aspect of his mercenary nature. It, like so many other things and building of skills, would take time. They were ruminations for another day, perhaps, when the world wasn’t as bitter and he wasn’t as weighed down by so many other aspects (maybe that was foolish – to believe there’d be better moments in the coming of foretold seasons; as if the land hadn’t told him enough). You are welcome he kindled in response, piercing eyes shifting back to the raven; a raptor inclination of his head.
The inquiry would’ve led to an arch in his brow, if he was standing tall as the proud warrior, and not the golden eagle. Were you not already listed as a combat medic? The slightest of teases, of taunts, as if Deimos had long ago presumed a niche, a role, that Jigano would or could fulfill. There wasn’t even a thought to the Sword being worth following – he’d never thought of himself in such a stature; just willing to go where he was suitable, to impart what little wisdom and sagacity he’d collected.
In the face of Jigano’s gratitude, its denizens shifting through the bonds of collected animals and their fabrications, he almost felt nothing – except perhaps a sort of disappointment in himself, the knack for needing to be better, stronger, faster, enough in any aspect of his mercenary nature. It, like so many other things and building of skills, would take time. They were ruminations for another day, perhaps, when the world wasn’t as bitter and he wasn’t as weighed down by so many other aspects (maybe that was foolish – to believe there’d be better moments in the coming of foretold seasons; as if the land hadn’t told him enough). You are welcome he kindled in response, piercing eyes shifting back to the raven; a raptor inclination of his head.
The inquiry would’ve led to an arch in his brow, if he was standing tall as the proud warrior, and not the golden eagle. Were you not already listed as a combat medic? The slightest of teases, of taunts, as if Deimos had long ago presumed a niche, a role, that Jigano would or could fulfill. There wasn’t even a thought to the Sword being worth following – he’d never thought of himself in such a stature; just willing to go where he was suitable, to impart what little wisdom and sagacity he’d collected.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
