i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
After you died shouldn’t have been a phrase they were bound to use on a regular basis; but there it was, poised and aloft, searing over the bits and pieces of their fractured, splintered lives. He’d long since been accustomed to it, to those memories webbed and implemented over his mind, in various, random intervals, in between sets of dreams, in the running course of nightmares. So he listened instead of chafing, of stifling down other ruminations, of armor that ran down spines once before, that altered, embedded, cut, slash, and tore. The Rift’s adjustments sounded like every bit of a curse, the very reputation that world seemed to spit out, and so he sighed.
He couldn’t do anything about that either; long since gone, disappeared, bones and ashes in a void that no longer existed.
“Good,” the General could finally answer. It was good that this was better. Whatever this was.
The Sword made no mention of the armor he’d once created for her, made to shift in each and every one of hers. Because those were gone too, and he didn’t know what to make of it. The training grounds was a safer topic, a well tread pathway they could both mutually understand without emotions getting in the way, without conflicted efforts hastening, stabbing, puncturing.
Maybe the contorted ramparts before them were wonderful; his gaze traced back over their broad strokes, their capabilities – but didn’t miss the slash of steel. The knife darted forward, towards the targets, a piece of lithe, lissome adornments completely lacking in any accuracy – and cutting into the wall. He arched a brow, leaning against the front portion of the exterior, well out of harm’s way, snorting back a rough hint of amusement. “Is that new as well?” The quick, abrupt measures? Something else forged alongside the Voice’s prowess?
He couldn’t do anything about that either; long since gone, disappeared, bones and ashes in a void that no longer existed.
“Good,” the General could finally answer. It was good that this was better. Whatever this was.
The Sword made no mention of the armor he’d once created for her, made to shift in each and every one of hers. Because those were gone too, and he didn’t know what to make of it. The training grounds was a safer topic, a well tread pathway they could both mutually understand without emotions getting in the way, without conflicted efforts hastening, stabbing, puncturing.
Maybe the contorted ramparts before them were wonderful; his gaze traced back over their broad strokes, their capabilities – but didn’t miss the slash of steel. The knife darted forward, towards the targets, a piece of lithe, lissome adornments completely lacking in any accuracy – and cutting into the wall. He arched a brow, leaning against the front portion of the exterior, well out of harm’s way, snorting back a rough hint of amusement. “Is that new as well?” The quick, abrupt measures? Something else forged alongside the Voice’s prowess?
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
