DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
The Sword watched, silent as always, as Harper made his rounds, inspecting, purveying, examining, scrutinizing. He pondered the weight of preferences, the notion of knowing, honing, a variety of weapons meant to slaughter, meant to uphold justice, meant to undue another’s intent – satisfied, content, with the notion that Harper had clearly experienced a variety. The more munitions, the more skills, the more value and further the range of ability. Only being capable in one area could lead to certain catastrophes. It was why Deimos regularly practiced with a series of objects: long blades, short blades, bows, knives, daggers. He’d get around to the staff at another point – preferring serrated edges over knotted wood, but those were available along the armory too. In the end though, Harper grabbed hold of a blade, and the General made to do the same, no favorites, no favored beacons, testing the weight in his grasp, leaning towards his predilections, not expecting anything else before they ventured out into the training grounds. The question, the inquiry, floated towards him though, and he blinked, a glance over his shoulder as he’d made to turn out of the arsenal’s vestiges and wake. “I did,” without arrogance or conceit; his eyes had widened somewhat at the compliment, taken aback momentarily, before they returned to their former, narrowed, piercing stature. A nod then, accepting the praise, and then not knowing what else to do with it, continued through the aperture, and out into the aforementioned field, with its series of targets, its covered catapult, its weight system along the open bombardment: a sanction dedicated to practice, to precision, to learning.
Only thereafter, once they’d entered the world of hard-earned sagacity, did he shift back to the man, preparing a stance, blade in his hand, calloused palms eager, ready, fervent. “Your move.”
Unite and spread the heart apart
