i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
Like flying; swallowing down a piece of rubble, of ruin, slashing and cutting somewhere down his throat. So his eyes watched as the knife did just that – singing and singeing its way through the air, rapidly conforming to her alterations. It made its mark, a puncturing, piercing filament; in reality, it would’ve been a slow, dastardly laceration, the kind that gradually, steadily, drained someone of their life. He ignored the flurry of thoughts revolving thereafter, the zeal, the fervency, the ardor of bloodshed hailed downward, wondering at how many prices they’d already paid, and how many more were to come. So instead, the Sword smiled, the light grin reappearing in the juncture and corner of his mouth, for her. For the actions managed to manifest. “Much.”
Then he maneuvered away, towards the wintry expanse, where the world was wide open, not beneath the canopy of the training arena. They’d left portions of it exposed for dominion, for elemental consideration – any soldier worth their weight wouldn’t be caught dead complaining of the cold here. So they utilized it, packed it down so that some portions resembled a great wide rampart, with little notches for hands, for feet, for limbs to clutch and hold as they climbed. Just another way to chisel the semblance of mountains, of fortitude, of perseverance, of might in the mayhem. The other proportions, rising overhead, curved alongside; a hill to run up and then down once they reached the top of the fortification itself. “Try the wall,” he called from his proportions at its fringes, so even his monolithic figure was diminished beneath its wake. A challenge, certainly, a recollection of worlds used to be like before everything fell apart.
Then he maneuvered away, towards the wintry expanse, where the world was wide open, not beneath the canopy of the training arena. They’d left portions of it exposed for dominion, for elemental consideration – any soldier worth their weight wouldn’t be caught dead complaining of the cold here. So they utilized it, packed it down so that some portions resembled a great wide rampart, with little notches for hands, for feet, for limbs to clutch and hold as they climbed. Just another way to chisel the semblance of mountains, of fortitude, of perseverance, of might in the mayhem. The other proportions, rising overhead, curved alongside; a hill to run up and then down once they reached the top of the fortification itself. “Try the wall,” he called from his proportions at its fringes, so even his monolithic figure was diminished beneath its wake. A challenge, certainly, a recollection of worlds used to be like before everything fell apart.
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
