DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The Sword spun and faced the showers dimly, a slow blink before understanding washed over, and the potent sigh fizzled through his breath once more. A vicious snort followed at her insinuation, the once-over her eyes commanded and scrutinized. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, not rising to any bait, listening to the rules, regulations, and demands of the wake, but fully intending to not follow them to the letter. Inspecting the sizes of the “shorts” left him sneering and wrinkling his nose, choosing none at all, before stepping into the shower and closing the curtain behind him with an audible snap, sneer, and pout.
Stripping off his layers, he piled them neatly in a corner, and then turned on the water, permitting a rinse over muscles and brawn, scars and lacerations. Long locks acquired the same notions and motions, until he was thoroughly drenched and cleaned, and then shut the components off. There were several moments where he figured he could probably easily take flight again – but then settled more into the notions of his planned mischief. Leaving his clothing in their designated cubby, the beast concocted and created his own pair of shorts, and breezily wandered out of the confines with the towel over his shoulder, as if daring her to suggest otherwise.
Content with the rest of his body exposed, the beast corded his hair back into a bun, and then stared over the expanse again. “Sure. Simple.” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, before wandering forward, placing his towel nearby, eyes only lifting to see her get in, instantly missing the springs of the Basin. So much easier. His gaze shifted downward to the muck, before hesitantly sliding one foot in, and then the other, standing and presiding along a stone step until he could no longer see his ankles. When it didn’t seem to swallow him whole, he continued inward, until he found another bench, far across from her – and sat, arms still crossed over his chest. He had half an inclination to proclaim he didn’t feel any different, but for a moment thereafter he began to feel the residual warmth slide over his tense, rigid stance, and contemplated the notion in silence.
Stripping off his layers, he piled them neatly in a corner, and then turned on the water, permitting a rinse over muscles and brawn, scars and lacerations. Long locks acquired the same notions and motions, until he was thoroughly drenched and cleaned, and then shut the components off. There were several moments where he figured he could probably easily take flight again – but then settled more into the notions of his planned mischief. Leaving his clothing in their designated cubby, the beast concocted and created his own pair of shorts, and breezily wandered out of the confines with the towel over his shoulder, as if daring her to suggest otherwise.
Content with the rest of his body exposed, the beast corded his hair back into a bun, and then stared over the expanse again. “Sure. Simple.” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, before wandering forward, placing his towel nearby, eyes only lifting to see her get in, instantly missing the springs of the Basin. So much easier. His gaze shifted downward to the muck, before hesitantly sliding one foot in, and then the other, standing and presiding along a stone step until he could no longer see his ankles. When it didn’t seem to swallow him whole, he continued inward, until he found another bench, far across from her – and sat, arms still crossed over his chest. He had half an inclination to proclaim he didn’t feel any different, but for a moment thereafter he began to feel the residual warmth slide over his tense, rigid stance, and contemplated the notion in silence.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
