[ love. it always boils down to that, isn't it. netzach is love-made-form. midnight is filled with it. were it the opposite. midnight draws his blade. netzach activates his power. kaveh's awareness of it is the same way one might be aware of a a meteor-shower. its scintillating spark illuminates the murk of a distant galaxy. it reminds him of the activation of a vision. cryo, kaveh thinks, netzach would be cryo.
and so would midnight. kaveh's blade skates into the ground. the stone shatters beneath their feet. kaveh is already pulling it back up, the greatsword as if weightless in hand as he flips it and parries the long, carving length of a blow meant to bisect. the arc of midnight's blade is beautiful. kaveh's heart aches at it. of course it does. for a sarkaz, the continuation of life after death is picking up the blade. and midnight - he is sarkaz. he had never wanted to hurt anyone. this is midnight, this isn't midnight, and the third piece of puzzle: this is the midnight that midnight sometimes thinks he needs to be. it occurs to kaveh that that's why he is so certain of it: that midnight either intends on bisecting kaveh so that it softens the blow for netzach, or that midnight will put kaveh into a position to mortally wound him, so that netzach will kill him instead.
neither outcomes are acceptable. there are two more. kaveh's blade flashes. outlined in knife-edged negative space behind kaveh's head is the force of a halo wresting itself into shape. midnight is left-handed, tends towards quick strokes of a blade with just enough overreach that kaveh suspects he is used to a blade just a little longer than the one he currently has. kaveh's claymore parries its edge into the ground, deft strokes that keep him pressed against midnight's right-hand side. netzach's magic seems to be sight-based, and his control may have nuance - kaveh forces his angle of approach by keeping him visible to his left. the next stroke of kaveh's blade is flat, and meant for the jut of midnight's wrist. kaveh says: ]
I trust in Netzach, just as you already have. [ and then, because he is kaveh, the next words burn, that latent simmering anger, the one carried forward by a mouthful of blood with dangerous, conversational precision: ] Midnight, how is your Oripathy here?
no subject
and so would midnight. kaveh's blade skates into the ground. the stone shatters beneath their feet. kaveh is already pulling it back up, the greatsword as if weightless in hand as he flips it and parries the long, carving length of a blow meant to bisect. the arc of midnight's blade is beautiful. kaveh's heart aches at it. of course it does. for a sarkaz, the continuation of life after death is picking up the blade. and midnight - he is sarkaz. he had never wanted to hurt anyone. this is midnight, this isn't midnight, and the third piece of puzzle: this is the midnight that midnight sometimes thinks he needs to be. it occurs to kaveh that that's why he is so certain of it: that midnight either intends on bisecting kaveh so that it softens the blow for netzach, or that midnight will put kaveh into a position to mortally wound him, so that netzach will kill him instead.
neither outcomes are acceptable. there are two more. kaveh's blade flashes. outlined in knife-edged negative space behind kaveh's head is the force of a halo wresting itself into shape. midnight is left-handed, tends towards quick strokes of a blade with just enough overreach that kaveh suspects he is used to a blade just a little longer than the one he currently has. kaveh's claymore parries its edge into the ground, deft strokes that keep him pressed against midnight's right-hand side. netzach's magic seems to be sight-based, and his control may have nuance - kaveh forces his angle of approach by keeping him visible to his left. the next stroke of kaveh's blade is flat, and meant for the jut of midnight's wrist. kaveh says: ]
I trust in Netzach, just as you already have. [ and then, because he is kaveh, the next words burn, that latent simmering anger, the one carried forward by a mouthful of blood with dangerous, conversational precision: ] Midnight, how is your Oripathy here?
[ kaveh's claymore sunders stone. ]