DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Brow seemingly eternally furrowed, his hands went to his nape, pulling back the mess of mane into a bun, pondering the complexity of the antlers again. His eyes went briefly to Jigano’s statue, with its molded scales and peeking fangs, then back to his, palms rising once more, attempting to put the finishing touches to the rack, exemplifying the scale of the points and tips, hollowing out fixtures so they looked more skeletal, more cadaverous. The finishing touch were wooden thresholds notched along its stomach, meant to resemble mushrooms – and then a tiny bat figurine on its back.
He hadn’t quite understood Jigano’s first sentiment, leaning away from his creation with a molten sigh – uncertain if it was even a great, grand rendering, shifting his attention to the murmuring bard. Isuma pouncing on moving pebbles didn’t register either, some fatigue, some exhaustion, wearing itself in the machinations of his mind, tilting his cranium further to exemplify the confusion. His eyes went to the small rocks, uncertain where this was leading – he hadn’t held any levitation properties before, nor was he capable of maneuvering portions of loam, soil, or earth with his mind. That had recently been reserved for fire, for water.
On an arch of his brow, at the shrug of his shoulders, he attempted exactly what Jigano directed: eyes widening briefly as the stones responded, shifting over the sand, pushed over to the right, then the left. “That is new,” was the only thing he could concoct; the briefest of bewilderment clutching his features.
He hadn’t quite understood Jigano’s first sentiment, leaning away from his creation with a molten sigh – uncertain if it was even a great, grand rendering, shifting his attention to the murmuring bard. Isuma pouncing on moving pebbles didn’t register either, some fatigue, some exhaustion, wearing itself in the machinations of his mind, tilting his cranium further to exemplify the confusion. His eyes went to the small rocks, uncertain where this was leading – he hadn’t held any levitation properties before, nor was he capable of maneuvering portions of loam, soil, or earth with his mind. That had recently been reserved for fire, for water.
On an arch of his brow, at the shrug of his shoulders, he attempted exactly what Jigano directed: eyes widening briefly as the stones responded, shifting over the sand, pushed over to the right, then the left. “That is new,” was the only thing he could concoct; the briefest of bewilderment clutching his features.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
