DEIMOS
With the constant need to keep moving, restless without anarchy or sedition, he maneuvered away from the wall, steering towards the table, the fire, and everything else nestled in between. The promise of some form of renewal, of resurrection, of resurgence, kept him coiled and curled together, an itch, a craving for movement and motion, for putting things back to rights again. For normalcy, for impacts, for a better dawn to come out of all these hells, for ashes to no longer be in his lungs, for embers to kindle, stoke, and fire, rather than dim. Though the Sword wasn’t one for hope, for faith (other than in himself), it was the determination long since instilled in his form that vitalized and awakened, and if he could keep that alive, keep it steady, keep it whole, than he wouldn’t allow anything to stop them. Protect, guard, defend – an immersion of foundations long since carved into his bones.And they’d all lost, but gods, how long had it been since they'd won?
He began to pull some food out of the cabinets nearby, stored from his latest round – bread, meat, and cheese, placing them out on the table if Aisha was partial to snacking. The General then leaned against the table, munching on ningo jerky, turning to fully face her, crossing his arms over his chest at her rebuttal. A tilt to his head indicated another feline gesture, as if he were mulling, musing, along a response, a counter-act. She might've been fishing for compliments again, and the heathen wasn't about to fall into the snare. “Oh? Were you not planning on staying?” The cheeky, juvenile, very boyish depiction flickered over him, as if he’d never been entangled in all the irreverence, rebellion, grief, and anguish slowly eroding, threatening to tear him apart – grin rendering to Cheshire depths. “Shame. I will have to find someone else then.”
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
