DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
His tail flicked, once, twice, a statuesque dominion of patience and composure, control and unsung violence, no matter which form he occupied. Waiting for Oliver to make a maneuver apparently wasn’t going to occur though, and he swallowed down the sigh brewing, quelling, brimming along his lungs and chest. No. He would never have healing contortions, not so long as the life drain pulsed through his veins; and since he’d had that since birth and had no intention of ridding himself of the malicious properties, it would remain that way. Zuriel is nearby. He thought he felt a distant eyeroll, and haughty condescension, but fought off the bond’s claws with a roll of his shoulders.
He wasn’t concerned about it. Perhaps that was foolish on his part - but the beast had enough precision and ability to not wage heaps of damage upon another, as he did in the opposite strain. Practice was practice. This wasn’t a battlefield. He wouldn’t be bombarding Oliver with menace, with malice, with treachery, with vehemence. It was meant to go through the motions, the maneuvers, to eventually it would become muscle memory.
Ready, he announced, no preparations necessary, massive, strong, and enduring. Your move.
He wasn’t concerned about it. Perhaps that was foolish on his part - but the beast had enough precision and ability to not wage heaps of damage upon another, as he did in the opposite strain. Practice was practice. This wasn’t a battlefield. He wouldn’t be bombarding Oliver with menace, with malice, with treachery, with vehemence. It was meant to go through the motions, the maneuvers, to eventually it would become muscle memory.
Ready, he announced, no preparations necessary, massive, strong, and enduring. Your move.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
