DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Ambition had its purpose; the stoking of aspirations, the kindling of drive, determination, and resolve. It led them down paths – sometimes rubbled, sometimes ruined, sometimes marred, and sometimes glorified. What Elidhe would do on the twists and turns of her journey could start here and now, and based on her initial zeal and motivation, the beast was curious. What had pages taught her? What illusions of grandeur triggered, maintained, or tore? Where were the gaps? Where were the successful bouts, the place in which instruction could heighten the hunger? At her grin, he managed a brief snort, the smirk behind his sentiments rendered hidden, furtive; saving it for other moments beyond speculation.
They went deeper into the grounds, where the training upheavals unfurled in rapid ease. His scrutinizing eye immediately pinpointed over various other recruits, watching them from a distance, habitual to watch and witness others devising their own miniscule acts of war. Thereafter, his savage strides swept over the stone, commanding, monolithic figure, presiding upon the sacred, familiar earth of his choosing – a home in the elemental barrage, in the potential onslaught.
Thereafter, he waited.
Stepping aside, marching diligently next to Aisha, the General folded his arms across his chest, head tilting slightly, and rendering himself into complete silence. If it was meant to be intimidating, daunting, or formidable, he gave no indication. Instead he was the keen observer, the examining witness, the diligent, scrupulous, meticulous heathen; studying as he might fellow opponents, adversaries, and enemies. Looking for weaknesses. For openings. For precision. For might. For talent.
Throughout her entire performance, he said nothing. Focus maintained over the maneuvering of limbs and the shape of swordplay; the dummy’s ultimate demise not meaning much to him. It was a burden that couldn’t fight back. It was how she moved, how she embarked, how she intended to prevail. When the display ended, quickly enough, the effigy’s continued repair-work in the back of his mind for some other poor recruit, Deimos made his prowess, his predilections, his observations known.
Pulling out his own blade, he opted for demonstration first. “Raising your sword above your head offers more power, but also leaves you wide open for detrimental counters." He lifted the weapon over his head, presiding, ensuring, the amount of his form left to be mauled, battered, and ruined (again and again and again; the scars littered underneath pelts, furs, and clothes a sign that he’d made these mistakes before) was visible. “Do not sacrifice yourself for that one moment. Not when you can defend or parry. Sometimes a triumph comes from endurance.” Thereafter, he lowered the armament, considering, allowing a moment for Aisha's thoughts to flicker through. “You have precision on an immobile target. What about one that moves?” Then he glanced at Aisha, the half-grin beginning to form along his mouth again, the Cheshire indicators with a dimple in his cheek. “If you are willing,” to both women – a challenge sequestered there, already certain Aisha would accept.
They went deeper into the grounds, where the training upheavals unfurled in rapid ease. His scrutinizing eye immediately pinpointed over various other recruits, watching them from a distance, habitual to watch and witness others devising their own miniscule acts of war. Thereafter, his savage strides swept over the stone, commanding, monolithic figure, presiding upon the sacred, familiar earth of his choosing – a home in the elemental barrage, in the potential onslaught.
Thereafter, he waited.
Stepping aside, marching diligently next to Aisha, the General folded his arms across his chest, head tilting slightly, and rendering himself into complete silence. If it was meant to be intimidating, daunting, or formidable, he gave no indication. Instead he was the keen observer, the examining witness, the diligent, scrupulous, meticulous heathen; studying as he might fellow opponents, adversaries, and enemies. Looking for weaknesses. For openings. For precision. For might. For talent.
Throughout her entire performance, he said nothing. Focus maintained over the maneuvering of limbs and the shape of swordplay; the dummy’s ultimate demise not meaning much to him. It was a burden that couldn’t fight back. It was how she moved, how she embarked, how she intended to prevail. When the display ended, quickly enough, the effigy’s continued repair-work in the back of his mind for some other poor recruit, Deimos made his prowess, his predilections, his observations known.
Pulling out his own blade, he opted for demonstration first. “Raising your sword above your head offers more power, but also leaves you wide open for detrimental counters." He lifted the weapon over his head, presiding, ensuring, the amount of his form left to be mauled, battered, and ruined (again and again and again; the scars littered underneath pelts, furs, and clothes a sign that he’d made these mistakes before) was visible. “Do not sacrifice yourself for that one moment. Not when you can defend or parry. Sometimes a triumph comes from endurance.” Thereafter, he lowered the armament, considering, allowing a moment for Aisha's thoughts to flicker through. “You have precision on an immobile target. What about one that moves?” Then he glanced at Aisha, the half-grin beginning to form along his mouth again, the Cheshire indicators with a dimple in his cheek. “If you are willing,” to both women – a challenge sequestered there, already certain Aisha would accept.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
