maybe rage will lift me up

DEIMOS

the resurrected sword

The protective nature of his soul had yet to ever truly decrease; mettled and cornered there in the distinction of his movements, in the eternal existence of his armament components. It’d been how he was raised, how he lived, and how he died before – unlikely to change and alter now, even as other filaments eroded or re-sculpted their facets. Perhaps they were pursuing the wrong angles, but at least they tried, which had to be more than sitting, staring, and waiting for the inevitable to send them scurrying into condemnation. It appeased the ruffled edges for a time, while they could gather more information, pursue walls, or some other jurisdiction. The whole thing seemed like a much bigger picture, a much larger frame, than anything they could achieve presently, but no one had ever ceased the Sword, nor the Reaper, from striving.

He nodded through Sunjata’s statements, brisk and curt, before propelling himself back upon the rock. Given the circumstances of needing to return to the shore, and though the rock wasn’t terribly far away, the lack of hands and proper mobility on land forced him to render back to his human distinction. While he maneuvered, concentrated on the efforts in grabbing hold of one of the first baskets laden with quieting fish, and lifting it to the wagon waiting along the portion of shore not waylaid by sand, he mulled over a response. Sure. I will be in Halo. Maybe by then they’d have more to go off of. It certainly couldn’t be any less.

under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed