who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword was never one to ignore a training exercise, regime, or challenge – the latter being a preference, a goading, an instigation that friends already knew well. And perhaps there was some mischief and impish decree embedded, infused, in the crunch of his paws against the snow, in the churning, undulating muscle mass of an entirely new cretin and shift in his repertoire. The Sage was likely expecting one of Deimos’ other forms; the eagle, the bear, or the tiger. Not the hound.
His form, dark and sleek against the snow and ice, maneuvered across the field in a slow, unwinding haze. The beast needed to adapt and hone his skills in this realm as well – not to be caught or snagged or turned by instinctual, carnivorous temptations, not to unravel, not to unwind, be further controlled and contorted by the monster within, rather than the precision in his mind.
Because the enticement to rampage along the powder, across the sanction, inveigled and lured, and perhaps the only thing that kept him from uncoiling every ether, every vestige, of predacious splendor and decadence, was the silver dragon nearby. The notion of devilish discretions meandered along his Machiavellian preambles instead, and so he wandered closer, before sitting down, haunches and tail within the rush of snow, in front of the lizard. Jigano, he addressed in his familiar, gruff, brief tones, tilting his head, the piercing slate of his stare rendered, waiting for the reaction.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
