DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
This was not the first incident or time Deimos had committed to lectures of fellows, soldiers, citizens, or otherwise. He’d been versed in a variety of excuses, some intending to repel him from pulsing into an absolute rage, some miniscule, ineffective, and ridiculous at best, and then others nestled in between, nodding their heads, apologetic for their behavior. As General, he held a responsibility towards the militia, those who considered themselves under his command, and tutelage, instruction, and protection of inhabitants amidst the Hollowed Grounds. Allowing another to fester, decay, and wither due to weakness, frailty, or incapability, an unwilling contortion to bettering themselves in either skills, technique, or lifestyle, would’ve been acceptable in Helovia. They’d die off. They’d wander into the world and not return. Someone else would find them, bring them into the fold, or merely bear witness to their struggle and cease to care. A numbness, a detachment, a certain nonchalance in realms of survival and wickedness.
Not in the Basin, however, not with his keen eyes and defiance, a roar, a bellow, a howl, a fluid bombardment of ravenous, cretin dedication. He wasn’t going to allow it here either – not when a misstep, a moment of stupidity, a second, an instance, of apprehension or uncertainty, could mean casualties and death for another.
He’d know – because despite best efforts, sometimes it didn’t matter at all. But that also shouldn’t signify never trying, never caring, never committing to anything but watching the world pass by.
The Sword was mildly surprised to hear the first few things come out of Oliver’s mouth; half-expecting a wail of whining proportions. None of this was betrayed on his features, remaining the silent, the stoic, the reticent, the reserved, keen on listening instead of bombarding (just yet).
Deimos knew not everyone had been segmented into fighting, battles, or held inclinations towards the bombardment of arms, munitions, and armaments. But Oliver had also chosen to participate, to designated himself in those roles during trainings, and to impart hybrid qualities into his life. That he should neglect any contortion was foolish, and a bit naïve. “Mistakes are part of learning.” He shrugged at first. The monolith could’ve told a hundred stories of his mishaps, from the beginning until present. “There will always be failure. You should not fear it. It is what you do in those moments that makes a difference.” Pouting and flailing around was not a highlight of any quest, sojourn, venture, or battle. “I hold trainings so you can prepare yourselves for whatever might come your way. You need to care less about looking ridiculous, and more about action and response.” He paused, eyes narrowing a fraction, thoughts reeling. “It is fine to not know what to do. But I will not have someone give up.” Another breath in amidst the composure, along the intertwinings of multiple lives, how they’d been led, where they’d gone astray, and how best to suit those who couldn’t help themselves. “Do you know why?”
Not in the Basin, however, not with his keen eyes and defiance, a roar, a bellow, a howl, a fluid bombardment of ravenous, cretin dedication. He wasn’t going to allow it here either – not when a misstep, a moment of stupidity, a second, an instance, of apprehension or uncertainty, could mean casualties and death for another.
He’d know – because despite best efforts, sometimes it didn’t matter at all. But that also shouldn’t signify never trying, never caring, never committing to anything but watching the world pass by.
The Sword was mildly surprised to hear the first few things come out of Oliver’s mouth; half-expecting a wail of whining proportions. None of this was betrayed on his features, remaining the silent, the stoic, the reticent, the reserved, keen on listening instead of bombarding (just yet).
Deimos knew not everyone had been segmented into fighting, battles, or held inclinations towards the bombardment of arms, munitions, and armaments. But Oliver had also chosen to participate, to designated himself in those roles during trainings, and to impart hybrid qualities into his life. That he should neglect any contortion was foolish, and a bit naïve. “Mistakes are part of learning.” He shrugged at first. The monolith could’ve told a hundred stories of his mishaps, from the beginning until present. “There will always be failure. You should not fear it. It is what you do in those moments that makes a difference.” Pouting and flailing around was not a highlight of any quest, sojourn, venture, or battle. “I hold trainings so you can prepare yourselves for whatever might come your way. You need to care less about looking ridiculous, and more about action and response.” He paused, eyes narrowing a fraction, thoughts reeling. “It is fine to not know what to do. But I will not have someone give up.” Another breath in amidst the composure, along the intertwinings of multiple lives, how they’d been led, where they’d gone astray, and how best to suit those who couldn’t help themselves. “Do you know why?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
