DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos’ figure had always been availed for warfare – evident in the way he maintained brawn, power, and muscularity, in the way scars drew and hastened, corded and wrapped, all around his torso, back, abdomen, and the rest of his limbs. Physicality in strength, in fortitude, in might; no shame in its prowess and potential. It was defense. It was offense. It was a shield. It was a weapon. Every inch of him prepared and honed in some way, shape, or form, for wreckage and devastation. There was no indignity, no discomfort, in the way he looked, in the suggestions of battle after battle, of what the maimed, ivory lines represented. Not just for show, but a purpose, crafted, honed, and sculpted for tactical, warrior wakes. Only very few had ever been permitted the features in intimacy; and he’d never utilized himself as a lure. If anything, he’d been firm and committed to the exact opposite. Walls upon walls, structures upon structures, fortifications upon fortifications.
Which he seemed to have forgotten as the warmth and mud continued to pool over his skin, over worked flesh and bone, over trained and honed force that was ever so slowly succumbing. He gradually slid further down, unbeknownst to his entity; instinctual, for it to glean over his chest and down along his shoulders, head leaning backwards over the bath’s edges, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. The Sword would allow her laughter, muffling his own in the wake of the muck, keeping it gathered in his chest. A portion of him wanted to remain completely obstinate, stubborn, and defiant simply for seditious sakes; but he ended up mumbling something anyway. “The Climb has some hot springs. We used it for a cure on the latest round of sickness.”
The beast’s feet eventually found the warm stones at the bottom too, and reeled instinctively away with a light kick through the muck, frowning slightly, before giving way again. He snorted at the insinuation of her bombardment into his ranks and friends, allies and brethren, muttering under his breath. “Traitors.”
The mire had nearly done its job of making him forget his earlier conspiracies in mischief – but the notion of the entanglements hastened another hidden, inward smirk. With eyes still closed, and therefore aim completely off – the mastered Earth, Water, and Air incantations hastened forth, lifting a round of the muck, and hurled it in her general direction.
Which he seemed to have forgotten as the warmth and mud continued to pool over his skin, over worked flesh and bone, over trained and honed force that was ever so slowly succumbing. He gradually slid further down, unbeknownst to his entity; instinctual, for it to glean over his chest and down along his shoulders, head leaning backwards over the bath’s edges, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. The Sword would allow her laughter, muffling his own in the wake of the muck, keeping it gathered in his chest. A portion of him wanted to remain completely obstinate, stubborn, and defiant simply for seditious sakes; but he ended up mumbling something anyway. “The Climb has some hot springs. We used it for a cure on the latest round of sickness.”
The beast’s feet eventually found the warm stones at the bottom too, and reeled instinctively away with a light kick through the muck, frowning slightly, before giving way again. He snorted at the insinuation of her bombardment into his ranks and friends, allies and brethren, muttering under his breath. “Traitors.”
The mire had nearly done its job of making him forget his earlier conspiracies in mischief – but the notion of the entanglements hastened another hidden, inward smirk. With eyes still closed, and therefore aim completely off – the mastered Earth, Water, and Air incantations hastened forth, lifting a round of the muck, and hurled it in her general direction.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
