[Training] I still don't want to be here

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Honed with a blade from a young age, Deimos had nearly forgotten what it meant to struggle with the notion of a weapon in his hands. Of the fire, vitriol, and vehemence that came along, amidst, the attachment, the grip, the grasp. It’d become second nature to him, to reach for an armament, to extend his power and demolition into serrated edges in a variety of forms – to be a weapon, physically, mentally, and magically. A contortion, a persistence, within his soul right to the very core, built, carved, and sculpted from the filaments of expertise and armaments, to strike adversaries down, to clear paths with the weight of his convictions, of his precision. So the General muffled any semblance of laughter, waiting for Sah to pick over, to glance, to become something more than overwhelmed or awe-inspired. Which likely wouldn’t be an easy feat, but given his following notion, perhaps he’d pick up the feelings quickly. “Yes.” A pause, and then he maneuvered out of the armory, the blade chosen, taking another route to the training grounds – newly refurbished, targets in the corner, braziers lit, canvas drawn, the snow outside the exterior proportions laden where he’d left it form previous semblances – a hill, meant to trek up and down and forge endurance. “It will become more fluid the more you use it.” Muscle memory, almost not even a thought, how to react, how to blindside, how to slash, how to defend. Within this particular sanction, a respite, a reprieve for the Sword, he permitted Sah another moment to take it all in, grabbing hold of an immobile target, and dragging it over to the center of the enclosed portions. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace