DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He struggled with not loosening another sigh through his chest. Listening was not par for Oliver’s course either, though it seemed rampant excuses were. Couldn’t find cats? There was an amazing amount of the animals here in the Hollowed Grounds, one wouldn't have to look far to find them in alleyways. Hadn’t the blacksmith already achieved a level of experience that he’d be able to summon, or compel them? For all his bluster, the follow-through seemed very poor, and for someone who claimed to be willing, craving, to learn more of his magic, of his capabilities, they seemed lackluster in comparison to others he’d come across. Maybe he’d settled into other directions, and adherence to these tasks were mere pretenses, something meant to suit the Sword, before moving on and forgetting, forgoing, his advice entirely. Did Oliver seek to waste the General’s time? When he could be training others who were far more willing, far more curious, for more inquisitive into the possibilities of protection, defense, or any arts hastened into their form? “Good,” was all he could assemble at Oliver’s wealth of climbing information, struggling not to clench his jaw and growl the words out.
“It should be on you. I can only do so much. I wield my magic, and you wield your own. I cannot, and will not, tell you how to do things. I can give you advice, and you can listen, adhere, or ignore them.” Which it seemed to veer off more into the latter as of late, fumbling, struggling, whining when the tasks forced him to think for himself. No one was going to hold his hand; there were too many things to do, too many lives at stake, too many problems to solve. Oliver was more than capable. He held himself back.
The suggestion caused his eyes to narrow, a briefest amount of speculation coiling, contorting, behind them, before a decision came to pass. “I suggest while you are in Torchline, you practice your magic defensively or offensively. You may come back for further training when you can tell me how you used them effectively.”
“It should be on you. I can only do so much. I wield my magic, and you wield your own. I cannot, and will not, tell you how to do things. I can give you advice, and you can listen, adhere, or ignore them.” Which it seemed to veer off more into the latter as of late, fumbling, struggling, whining when the tasks forced him to think for himself. No one was going to hold his hand; there were too many things to do, too many lives at stake, too many problems to solve. Oliver was more than capable. He held himself back.
The suggestion caused his eyes to narrow, a briefest amount of speculation coiling, contorting, behind them, before a decision came to pass. “I suggest while you are in Torchline, you practice your magic defensively or offensively. You may come back for further training when you can tell me how you used them effectively.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
