i wonder which will get you killed faster - your loyalty
Audacity and boldness only entangled themselves in and amongst his ichor when pressed; juvenile tendencies, the infantile marks chiseled beneath a man who’d long since lost the presence of boyhood. Those moments were gone in the first swing of a blade, in the first beats of war drums, in the first slash of blood and bone. But every now and again they flickered, they basked, they drifted, when in the comfort and sanctity of those he cherished. Not so many walls. Not so many guards. Not so many ramparts. Not so many fortifications, locked away in his perilous hells.
So he laughed at her murmur, at the speed in which they assailed, triumphant push and pulls while they traversed upwards together, and the portions of strength rippled through him. Power here, in the deliberate movements, in the ease of unburdening motions –
And then that was gone too.
The Sword could see the Harpy beginning to fall, and no matter how fast, how quickly, his hand reached out, she’d already breezed by him. He didn’t watch her cascade or land or slam into the ground, couldn’t, wouldn’t, already too busy enacting action, coming down himself on eagle clarity and heightened descent. He likely landed seconds after her, from bird to human in one devastating moment, the practiced derision of chaos and bedlam surging around him ensuring the panic didn’t rise through his throat, lungs, and ribs.
He crouched down beside her, one hand hovering over her form, as if to ensure she didn’t try to rise. It hadn’t been lava or fire this time, but cold, hard stone, and the semblances of whatever wounds could be manifested there hadn’t gone out of his head. The fall wasn’t far, wasn’t life-threatening, but there were so many other nuances, and circumstances, too many echoes and haunting fixtures clawing at his memories –
The trepidation curled in there now, settled against the beat of his heart as it thrummed and pounded in wild crescendos – his eyes widening, glancing over, deep rumble in his vocals striving not to echo the dread coiling into his veins. Maybe it was for the best that she couldn’t feel his emotions right now. “Hey,” as if to bring her, to bring himself, out of the mess they’d made. “Anything damaged?” And Deimos didn’t have to call for Zuriel, no need, no warning required; she must’ve felt the agony striking against him and maneuvered her way through the halls – there an instant later, lingering above both of them.
So he laughed at her murmur, at the speed in which they assailed, triumphant push and pulls while they traversed upwards together, and the portions of strength rippled through him. Power here, in the deliberate movements, in the ease of unburdening motions –
And then that was gone too.
The Sword could see the Harpy beginning to fall, and no matter how fast, how quickly, his hand reached out, she’d already breezed by him. He didn’t watch her cascade or land or slam into the ground, couldn’t, wouldn’t, already too busy enacting action, coming down himself on eagle clarity and heightened descent. He likely landed seconds after her, from bird to human in one devastating moment, the practiced derision of chaos and bedlam surging around him ensuring the panic didn’t rise through his throat, lungs, and ribs.
He crouched down beside her, one hand hovering over her form, as if to ensure she didn’t try to rise. It hadn’t been lava or fire this time, but cold, hard stone, and the semblances of whatever wounds could be manifested there hadn’t gone out of his head. The fall wasn’t far, wasn’t life-threatening, but there were so many other nuances, and circumstances, too many echoes and haunting fixtures clawing at his memories –
The trepidation curled in there now, settled against the beat of his heart as it thrummed and pounded in wild crescendos – his eyes widening, glancing over, deep rumble in his vocals striving not to echo the dread coiling into his veins. Maybe it was for the best that she couldn’t feel his emotions right now. “Hey,” as if to bring her, to bring himself, out of the mess they’d made. “Anything damaged?” And Deimos didn’t have to call for Zuriel, no need, no warning required; she must’ve felt the agony striking against him and maneuvered her way through the halls – there an instant later, lingering above both of them.
or your stubbornness?
DEIMOS
