DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
The warning, ominous in just the motion of his eyes, seemed enough. Lines crossed and boundaries infringed upon – sometimes what the daring, the emboldened, the brash concocted upon him, taking moments, opportunities, to seize some semblance of scarring and maiming his form. Lost, away from the true purpose of their skirmish, snared by their emotions and inveigled by their munitions, and the Sword an easy target. Tall, built, monolithic statures, capable of taking and enduring their hits – but it didn’t mean he needed to. Battle and war were different from duels and practice – there was no necessity in becoming their effigy.
Fortunately, the procession of what could’ve been (annihilation, belligerence, caustic, demolition) ceased. She flinched, she bent, she clenched her jaw, and the whirlwind of sentiments seemed to have hollowed out, into a swallowed, consumed void. The clatter of her sword against the stones was enough, a reverberation of understandings and misgivings. He ceased his motions entirely, some vague semblance of a sigh threatening to unfurl from his lungs. Instead, he placed his foot on her blade, and then side-stepped, lifting it into his grasp.
Not offering it back to her yet. His palms wrapped around both hilts now, and his eyes settled upon her, an arch to his brow, but features otherwise not betraying anything. A stoic, reticent countenance, devoid and absent of the play of ruminations scaling within his mind. On a deep rumble, but low enough not to be overheard by those straggling, glancing over (attention scraping immediately from the echoes of a fallen weapon), he committed to his instructor precision. “What have you learned?”
Fortunately, the procession of what could’ve been (annihilation, belligerence, caustic, demolition) ceased. She flinched, she bent, she clenched her jaw, and the whirlwind of sentiments seemed to have hollowed out, into a swallowed, consumed void. The clatter of her sword against the stones was enough, a reverberation of understandings and misgivings. He ceased his motions entirely, some vague semblance of a sigh threatening to unfurl from his lungs. Instead, he placed his foot on her blade, and then side-stepped, lifting it into his grasp.
Not offering it back to her yet. His palms wrapped around both hilts now, and his eyes settled upon her, an arch to his brow, but features otherwise not betraying anything. A stoic, reticent countenance, devoid and absent of the play of ruminations scaling within his mind. On a deep rumble, but low enough not to be overheard by those straggling, glancing over (attention scraping immediately from the echoes of a fallen weapon), he committed to his instructor precision. “What have you learned?”
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
