[Training] sometimes, quiet is violent

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

Oliver’s antics proved to be too much for the injured fowl, and eventually, exhaustion, fatigue, and its wounds gave way, gone in the bites, in the pummeling, in the mayhem. Stilled, silenced, no squawk, no fight, nothing but a hunt secured and finalized. Dead and bloodied, distinctly maimed.

Deimos, his own mouth full of turkey, meandered his way along the grass again, back where he’d last seen the other cat, his eyes narrowed, pinpointed, at Oliver and his catch. A singular nod was granted, the job executed, completed. Good. We can go back. No need for an overkill, no need to continue mauling, maiming, or tracing a path of other poor creatures. The rest of the flock had long since departed, the flattened portions of earth otherwise losing their distinction in the path works and traces of moonlight; as if naught had ever been there. This portion of practice had gone well, and the Sword felt no need to prolong their exposure, their motives, their motions here. Then you can show me your other maneuvers. Which was made on the slightest chuckle; as he passed the youth, and began the walk back towards the training grounds.

still standing

not because you can

but because you have to