in the same storm

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.”

DEIMOS

You make my heart shake bend and break

Deimos had a point. A good one, at that. "I will begin making the final decisions, in that case." Of course, at this point Oliver had no idea what his future would hold. No idea about any of the plans that Wessex had that would ultimately lead to him staying in the Grounds. The unexpected always happened and yet, Oliver's mind would never wander into such territories.

For the time being, he would just have to settle with this.

"Send me a letter with your measurements and I'll get to it in that case. I'll even try to add a special, personal flair to it." It wouldn't prevent the gear from properly working, but it would add a special sort of uniqueness to the armor. It would make it special and worth having it created by a blacksmith.

---

---

Go ahead and fin

OLIVER

Change everything you are and everything you were

Your number has been called

One last roll, one last push, and the catapult had made it over the knoll, towards the portal, and with him alongside it. In the meantime, Oliver had at least settled on coming to the conclusion that a decision was necessary, and the General withheld a sigh. The future was tenuous, uncertain, and bizarre; no telling where the calamity would strike, hold, or fire next, and while they could prepare, plan, and forge ahead, there still wasn’t anything other than their own fortitude, mettle, and assurance gathered within. So the beast nodded, the cinders of the shrug threatening to rise over his shoulders once more hastened down again. With the promise of armor, along with sent measurements (the notion of a personal flair nearly making him snort), all that was left was to traverse back towards mountains; the rumble forming along his chest in response. “Sure. Good luck.” Apparently the blacksmith would need it.

{FIN}

DEIMOS