who we are and all that we're trying to be
In other circumstances, the Sword might have been rendered into volleys of laughter as some confidence from the other was completely shaken; petty, spiteful, amused by the fear that flames brought. He’d been raised in their range – his father’s enchantments of wild infernos a distant, looming memory, a burning rendition of things that could singe and demolish, conflagrations reaching toward skies, mesmerizing bursts of destruction. The element was a kindred spirit, the lingering threads of cinders and rage, of molten, infernal havoc, of where enemies and adversaries would screech and burn, of where the world learned and understood the layers of his ferocity.
But not here.
His eyes caught the wary void, felt it flood over Attuned armaments, and maneuvered towards the flames. He might’ve maneuvered straight into the scathing, blistering hearth and heart of it – let the rush of smoke and fumes lacquer against his bones, make him better, make him stronger. Instead, his paws dug into the sand and hurled it along the embers, choking the life out of them dimming their potency and prowess until they were mere, crackling whispers, remaining on the edges and fringes. They ate away at the refuse instead of the air, quiet, subdued, the enamel below the surface of his silence, of his fortitude, of his might.
A shrug of his shoulders followed as his great head turned back to the panther. It is fine. Not bothered for the present, now that he wasn’t going to be utilized as someone’s amusement; gaze sliding back to the fire, tending to its ramparts. I am used to it now. To people, to company, to bombardments; plotting escapes only when it was necessary.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
