i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
The vestiges and edges of the weaponry were a settling image; something innate, inherent, born from multiple lifetimes. And while others might have seen them as dangerous, as treacherous, as hollowed lethality, they’ve been ground, carved, and calloused over his palms since he was old enough to bear the arms and understand their complexities. To value the extension of his limbs, to solidify what they meant for opponents, for hunting, for adversaries, for skills he’d entangle and whittle into anything and everything. Leaning upon the doorframe, he gazed out over their ilk, the serrated glory, the potential for defense, sieges, and assaults, admiring them for their worth, before snorting at her exclamation.
He’d always been busy. It kept him from sinking down into the reaches of agony, of not looking in, of not glancing or seeing the drowning pulses coming to reach over his heart and lungs and soul. He’d been told repeatedly to take it easy when recovering from their afflictions and ignored that too. “When am I not?” Here he arched a brow, but chuckled; permitted the sound to reverberate over the structure of the room, instead of being consumed by some numbing ache. Not today. Not now.
The monolith’s eyes trailed after her, pondering which she’d pick, which stuck out to her, which steel surged in her ichor now. He nodded at the memory of the throwing knives, one of the many gifts he’d prospered to her, and much like the armor, presumed had been long since lost in the flames. So another pair caught and tugged at her, and there was nothing to refuse. “Then they are yours.” Certainly not as adorned as the ones he’d given her – but that likely didn’t matter. She’d make them her own in some way or another.
Deimos looked down at her at the mention of offensive figments, a she in the ruffling of tones that nearly sent him clenching his jaw; the smile dissipating, a feral sigh waxing and waning in his lungs. The Voice. His arms crossed over his chest, and he breathed a very sharp inhale, fighting off a multitude of mutinous, seditious, revolutionary notions and nuances. And he knew he had to accept it, to furrow down all the other clawing, snapping proportions, but they still reeled. Still punctured. Still pierced. “Did she.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even anything more than a broken statement, something to fill in the void. If she wanted to share further, it’d be up to her.
He turned, suddenly stifled and restless, off the aperture, and back out, crossing down another hallway that led out and beyond. “Come see the training grounds.”
He’d always been busy. It kept him from sinking down into the reaches of agony, of not looking in, of not glancing or seeing the drowning pulses coming to reach over his heart and lungs and soul. He’d been told repeatedly to take it easy when recovering from their afflictions and ignored that too. “When am I not?” Here he arched a brow, but chuckled; permitted the sound to reverberate over the structure of the room, instead of being consumed by some numbing ache. Not today. Not now.
The monolith’s eyes trailed after her, pondering which she’d pick, which stuck out to her, which steel surged in her ichor now. He nodded at the memory of the throwing knives, one of the many gifts he’d prospered to her, and much like the armor, presumed had been long since lost in the flames. So another pair caught and tugged at her, and there was nothing to refuse. “Then they are yours.” Certainly not as adorned as the ones he’d given her – but that likely didn’t matter. She’d make them her own in some way or another.
Deimos looked down at her at the mention of offensive figments, a she in the ruffling of tones that nearly sent him clenching his jaw; the smile dissipating, a feral sigh waxing and waning in his lungs. The Voice. His arms crossed over his chest, and he breathed a very sharp inhale, fighting off a multitude of mutinous, seditious, revolutionary notions and nuances. And he knew he had to accept it, to furrow down all the other clawing, snapping proportions, but they still reeled. Still punctured. Still pierced. “Did she.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even anything more than a broken statement, something to fill in the void. If she wanted to share further, it’d be up to her.
He turned, suddenly stifled and restless, off the aperture, and back out, crossing down another hallway that led out and beyond. “Come see the training grounds.”
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
