DEIMOS
surviving is never beautiful
its blood on your hands and face
its blood on your hands and face
There was some facetious remark biding behind his teeth, but then the words struck a little harder than they were likely intended, and he grew more silent. The quiet pervaded every tangible outset of his form, while he pondered the angles. For what it was worth, his lack of conversation or the right stanzas had sometimes been misconstrued, and he’d tried to make it a point to herald more dignity, more conversation. But the Sword could also be stuck in those ruts of old, habitual, routine moments; where the wounds hurt and the scars scraped and the notions blended together into days of politics and diplomacy. Of harboring furtive grounds and secrets. Of a mind cultivated to machinate, and subsequently ruin. Of years where everything maimed and marred. And even now, since arriving to Caido, much had been the same – no matter how he’d strived to alter, to change. The lacerations still bore their weight.
So he shrugged, and moved on.
The earthen incantations continued to spread, and he strived to gain sense of any unfamiliar sound, any unfamiliar movement, through the beckoning haze of bright hues and illustrious jungles. Not to seek out danger, not to regard unnecessary risk, but to wonder, to discover, to ponder: what laid within, what lived and surrounded.
The companions hastened along at their own pace, and she answered his inquiry. Another Outlander tradition apparently, tweaks and turns of different parallels, but the magic instilled altered too.
He watched too, at her demonstration – as the puffs of air billowed, on a promise, on a beckon, but could only go so far.
“It takes time and practice,” the monolith noted, instead of calling anything “lame”. Because it wasn’t, just new and foreign. “The longer we are here,” meaning Caido – this world of strange and bizarre intricacies, “the more our powers seem to grow.” And he had no other way to explain it – save for endless training, rampaging through trial after trial, tribulation after tribulation. “My life drain was strongest. And then creation.” And then everything that fell thereafter.
In response, his own Air enchantments rose, a gale, a force, ricocheting between the canopies and boughs. Somewhere Belial made an affronted snort. He might’ve made it a grand whirlwind or crescendo, but permitted it to fade, arching one brow, before maneuvering on. “It will progress.”
So he shrugged, and moved on.
The earthen incantations continued to spread, and he strived to gain sense of any unfamiliar sound, any unfamiliar movement, through the beckoning haze of bright hues and illustrious jungles. Not to seek out danger, not to regard unnecessary risk, but to wonder, to discover, to ponder: what laid within, what lived and surrounded.
The companions hastened along at their own pace, and she answered his inquiry. Another Outlander tradition apparently, tweaks and turns of different parallels, but the magic instilled altered too.
He watched too, at her demonstration – as the puffs of air billowed, on a promise, on a beckon, but could only go so far.
“It takes time and practice,” the monolith noted, instead of calling anything “lame”. Because it wasn’t, just new and foreign. “The longer we are here,” meaning Caido – this world of strange and bizarre intricacies, “the more our powers seem to grow.” And he had no other way to explain it – save for endless training, rampaging through trial after trial, tribulation after tribulation. “My life drain was strongest. And then creation.” And then everything that fell thereafter.
In response, his own Air enchantments rose, a gale, a force, ricocheting between the canopies and boughs. Somewhere Belial made an affronted snort. He might’ve made it a grand whirlwind or crescendo, but permitted it to fade, arching one brow, before maneuvering on. “It will progress.”
it's fear and feeling numb at the same time
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
stories of a life you should've never been forced to fight
