DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos had always been a quiet observer; studious, careful, meticulous, watching to ascertain strategies, to scrutinize capabilities, and to unravel another’s plots. Helovia had given him grand opportunities to perfect the skill: battle after battle, challenge after challenge, invasion after invasion.
Though, never as a tiger.
It was instinct here and there, honed within those predatory, voracious lines. Feline eyes watched as Oliver slowly maneuvered forward, quiet, paws placed certainly, just as he’d asked him to do when they were hunting turkeys. A relief, in some way, that the fellow beast had learned and carried it forward, that hopefully it would eventually become muscle memory, inherent, with naught to think about but the next series of movements and motions.
Then he sprinted, and Deimos crouched, preparing himself for the incoming onslaught; a launch, a leap, claws attempting to seek purchase in his argent hide and fur. The pricking of Oliver’s claws ensured some guarantee of pain, clutching at his side, along the lower entanglements of his spine. For what it was worth, Deimos braced for it, used to the semblances of discomfort and torment, clutches of fur undoubtedly due to slide off in Oliver’s grasp, and didn’t allow the ache to stretch through the attuned bond. Too many warrior intricacies, too many days spent becoming numb to the art of lacerations, wounds, and scars. Just another moment; habitual and distinct. If anything deigned his reaction, it was a defiant snort, a torrent of sedition spread through his lungs and nares.
His first notion thereafter, then, was to dislodge the creature. Using his massive bulk, muscle, sinew, flesh, and bone, the Sword strived to simply roll over, on top of the smaller cat, intending to either crush or expel, make the other one flicker away from his form.
Though, never as a tiger.
It was instinct here and there, honed within those predatory, voracious lines. Feline eyes watched as Oliver slowly maneuvered forward, quiet, paws placed certainly, just as he’d asked him to do when they were hunting turkeys. A relief, in some way, that the fellow beast had learned and carried it forward, that hopefully it would eventually become muscle memory, inherent, with naught to think about but the next series of movements and motions.
Then he sprinted, and Deimos crouched, preparing himself for the incoming onslaught; a launch, a leap, claws attempting to seek purchase in his argent hide and fur. The pricking of Oliver’s claws ensured some guarantee of pain, clutching at his side, along the lower entanglements of his spine. For what it was worth, Deimos braced for it, used to the semblances of discomfort and torment, clutches of fur undoubtedly due to slide off in Oliver’s grasp, and didn’t allow the ache to stretch through the attuned bond. Too many warrior intricacies, too many days spent becoming numb to the art of lacerations, wounds, and scars. Just another moment; habitual and distinct. If anything deigned his reaction, it was a defiant snort, a torrent of sedition spread through his lungs and nares.
His first notion thereafter, then, was to dislodge the creature. Using his massive bulk, muscle, sinew, flesh, and bone, the Sword strived to simply roll over, on top of the smaller cat, intending to either crush or expel, make the other one flicker away from his form.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
