i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
More Ascended capabilities came to light; swiftness, quickness, in the murky doldrums of nocturnal throngs. Their hours, he supposed, out of the sun, and into the fray. It made sense in accordance with their experiences throughout LongNight; the endless evening spelling out haggard, eldritch abominations into the glimpses of mankind, and feasting upon what they could. His jaw refused to clench at the information, shoving it aside for semblances that would work for her now. Instead, it was quiet, silent contemplation, a rendering of observations as his stare went to the glint of the knife, the way she threw, the swiftness overtaking, overriding, natural inclinations she likely once harbored and harpooned.
“Aim with your eyes.” He stood off to the side, out of range from her potential swing, volley, and eradication of either the wall or the target. “Too many try with just their hand. But the knives will follow your gaze.” This was comfortable now. This was what he understood. This he could always harken back to.
The beast then took one from his belt, always, eternally equipped for whatever occasion, coming to march closer to another target, where she too could watch, and try to reapply. The Sword wouldn’t have her Ascended speed, but he held his own practiced, experienced dexterity. The dagger, much like blades, much like incantations, was familiar in his calloused palm, and he surmised the earlier contemplations with the depth, the range, the scope of his glance. Then the serrated edges seethed through the air, landing squarely in the target’s painted-on brow.
“Aim with your eyes.” He stood off to the side, out of range from her potential swing, volley, and eradication of either the wall or the target. “Too many try with just their hand. But the knives will follow your gaze.” This was comfortable now. This was what he understood. This he could always harken back to.
The beast then took one from his belt, always, eternally equipped for whatever occasion, coming to march closer to another target, where she too could watch, and try to reapply. The Sword wouldn’t have her Ascended speed, but he held his own practiced, experienced dexterity. The dagger, much like blades, much like incantations, was familiar in his calloused palm, and he surmised the earlier contemplations with the depth, the range, the scope of his glance. Then the serrated edges seethed through the air, landing squarely in the target’s painted-on brow.
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
