Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
The Sword stopped and stared at the blacksmith, mystified at the indecisions, at the lack of forethought, at the apprehension and panic, and then deciding to do almost nothing about it. There were formations of patience, of funneling into a biding, waiting game, and then there were detrimental decisions within tenacity – and Deimos wasn’t certain if this was one of those times, or merely a stumbling, learning curve for Oliver. Where he’d have to embark and experience the waves and ripples of his actions all on his own, where naught was going to be offered, where he’d have to forge onward for himself, and not linger or loiter until someone handed the opportunity to him. To make his own path, or to suffer in the beckoning, clawing onslaught. The monolith had already extended his advice, his musings, and his predilections – Oliver would have to configure the rest. “Best do it sooner rather than later.” A change in seasons grasped and grew upon them, and he shrugged.
There was only so much one could do for those unwilling to try.
While the younger man examined and studied, the once Reaper forged onward, the portal in sight, the catapult willing to maneuver under his command and bidding. He didn’t expect the awakening acknowledgments, nor the offer placed in return. The beast couldn’t even remember a time he’d been given or granted a trade for the magical adornments – most of the time, they’d been gifts to those he cherished.
And now they were out of his life.
The sting settled into his chest, and he didn’t pull its thorns out. Instead, he lived immersed in it for a moment, blinking steadily, before turning his gaze back to Oliver. Would it make the man feel better, if he were to say yes? The General was more than capable of making his own armor. He just hadn’t. Artifacts and enchantments had gone to others, their safety far more paramount than his. His eyes fell to the ground for a moment, before lifting once more. “Sure. Armor.” An arch to his brow, a muffled snort. “Surprise me.”
There was only so much one could do for those unwilling to try.
While the younger man examined and studied, the once Reaper forged onward, the portal in sight, the catapult willing to maneuver under his command and bidding. He didn’t expect the awakening acknowledgments, nor the offer placed in return. The beast couldn’t even remember a time he’d been given or granted a trade for the magical adornments – most of the time, they’d been gifts to those he cherished.
And now they were out of his life.
The sting settled into his chest, and he didn’t pull its thorns out. Instead, he lived immersed in it for a moment, blinking steadily, before turning his gaze back to Oliver. Would it make the man feel better, if he were to say yes? The General was more than capable of making his own armor. He just hadn’t. Artifacts and enchantments had gone to others, their safety far more paramount than his. His eyes fell to the ground for a moment, before lifting once more. “Sure. Armor.” An arch to his brow, a muffled snort. “Surprise me.”
DEIMOS
