[Training] [se] now what's in store

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Oh, goading was it? Perhaps Cordelia had thought he’d fall quietly into some awkward juxtaposition, but when a challenge was on, the Sword had a way of flickering straight into juvenile behavior. All diplomatic ease and dignified manners were forgotten in place of mischief and audacity. So he merely snickered as she carried on, permitting a rumble of laughter to exude and echo along the chambers of the training grounds – enough to set a few of the soldiers into a sudden jump. “Sounds like you found your rhythm,” persisted in response, lifting his jaw in a seditious, emboldened manner, the Cheshire grin not far behind. Retrieving his spear, plucking it deftly out of the target’s nose, and shrugging at the hole left there, he wandered forward and out of the way, eyes tracing over Cordelia’s arrow. It sunk in just as nicely, and then he took up his stance once more. Practicing the execution from prior instruction, he ensured his grasp was the same, but flung it using his other arm, intending to ensure both were maintained in muscle memory. This particular line went for the target’s gut, spiraling directly into the center – an unfortunate wound. But he listened as well, taking it all in. That her family was well, and then the other lines. Deimos’ brow furrowed slightly, then arched, uncertain. She hadn’t been amongst the banished or exiled, and had made the choice in loyalty to go with them on their meandering journey through Wilds, Torchline, and plots. Instead of giving in to all of his presumptions, the Sword took more of a blunt approach. “What do you mean?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace