DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Tugged away from the berries with a quiet huff, the ignorance of plant-life and its foibles, unaware of her inner workings (because he’d have a lot to say about touch – coming from a man who had an entire lifetime where he couldn’t), distracted him from much else. He could only identify bits and pieces he’d seen before – like snow moss, or peppermint bark, and naught here resembled the poisons Ray had helped him concoct. Made to preserve the constituents and citizens of Halo, rather than embark on noxious, nefarious qualities.
“Food,” he snorted. “Like we used to.” However, the Sword had no intention of leaning into bread, marking it across with fineries of different times and different measures, or embarking too far down into those memories. Perhaps there would be altered traditions along with the namesake, rather than blunted ends of mud monsters or tragic fringes, or maybe the rest of the world would stay away, too hesitant, too apprehensive, from the measures of the past. “Should we bring back the flower crowns?” A joke; competitive means ensuring he’d had more than necessary in the peaceful, intermittent years.
He arched a brow at the movement of the rosemary, but didn’t question it – presuming she’d know better. Eyes widened instead at the semblances of her throwing knives, of skills still utilized from years and seasons before, before falling into their residual stoicism, the quiet, piercing glance. “We have a good selection in the armory,” all made and crafted by him, with carved perfection and serrated semblances, no blade out of place. “You can look later.”
Tilting his head, very canine and feline all at once – predator motions perhaps, in the calm and stillness, he snorted at her insinuation. “Going to live in the greenhouse?”
“Food,” he snorted. “Like we used to.” However, the Sword had no intention of leaning into bread, marking it across with fineries of different times and different measures, or embarking too far down into those memories. Perhaps there would be altered traditions along with the namesake, rather than blunted ends of mud monsters or tragic fringes, or maybe the rest of the world would stay away, too hesitant, too apprehensive, from the measures of the past. “Should we bring back the flower crowns?” A joke; competitive means ensuring he’d had more than necessary in the peaceful, intermittent years.
He arched a brow at the movement of the rosemary, but didn’t question it – presuming she’d know better. Eyes widened instead at the semblances of her throwing knives, of skills still utilized from years and seasons before, before falling into their residual stoicism, the quiet, piercing glance. “We have a good selection in the armory,” all made and crafted by him, with carved perfection and serrated semblances, no blade out of place. “You can look later.”
Tilting his head, very canine and feline all at once – predator motions perhaps, in the calm and stillness, he snorted at her insinuation. “Going to live in the greenhouse?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
