#tactiically

DON'T!!!! FEED INTO THIS!!!! IT'S LIES & SLANDER!!!!

…chrom, did you wanna… talk about something…

he inhaled. blood filled his nose... but the smell of disgusting risen was more present. someone was injured. they were fighting. his sense of smell is not as strong as... say... a taguel. no, that was reserved for their species.

he was human. he was human, but on the battlefield he was not.

with a mask covering his face, he stepped into the clear. risen, a risen chief, and a rag-tag army. he wanted to say he knew a few faces (perhaps from the bitter future that was his own), but he reserved judgement. he could not say for sure.

anubis exhaled. “might as well practice,” he mumbled to nobody in particular. he pulled his second tome from his inventory, stoxylis. he could only attack at range, from 2 to 3 paces away, and there was always a high chance he could miss, but...

there always the chance he could land a critical.

the mage waved his hand over the book, causing the pages to turn on their own. “but... who should be my enemy... mhmm- the risen? i guess.”

WHAT THE F U C K

THE SCALES HAVE BEEN TIPPED

dying is the entire plot of awakening  /  accepting

he doesn’t like standing behind everyone. he doesn’t like being kept safe, only to helplessly watch they fall despite all his effort to plan ahead. he fights alongside his comrades ─ his friends, his family. and every time he decides to place himself on the frontlines with them, there arises friction.

            you’re one of our tacticians, he’s told.                               we would be lost without you.

robin disagrees. he argues back every time he’s told this. he’s so tired of settling back as they’re felled by the hellish figures of─ of the undead. of once living men and women, now walking the earth without a conscious of their own. he refuses, so adamantly, to be  idle  even face of the damned.

at first, he didn’t feel it. he was staring right at the blade, now forced through fabric & flesh. it’s as if one has an out-of-body experience; they see what is happening, and in their head, they know it’s real. and yet every sensation that goes with it ─ the fear. the bitter flavour of copper. the searing heat of frigid steel cleaving through one’s own flesh ─ they know it’s there, but they don’t feel it. and he didn’t. robin hadn’t first tasted his own blood when spills past lips, nor did he smell the arid stench of decay which rolls off his assailant’s body. all he does is stare, dumbfounded.

when the sword is ripped free, does the warmth suddenly wash o’er him. when he is freed of steel, does he stumble back. (as if dazed; as if he’s once more only just waking up & slowly registering the world around him.) hands, once so sure & coordinated, falter as they touch so gingerly the wound which blood pools ‘round. fingers are slick with crimson in an instant, and he tries to take a breath…

but he’s left gasping ─ clawing so desperately for  air that ne’er comes. he’s wheezing. he’s trying so hard to breathe, but all he does is choke on the taste of iron. it’s as if he’s drowning; like he’s sinking in a bottomless ocean and he can only panic as he slips from the surface. he feels his knees buckle under his weight. he feels it as he’s falling back, and he can’t move fast enough to brace himself for the ground below. his name echoes across the battlefield ─ this he’s aware of ─ and he’s trying to search out the source, but he can’t turn his head quick enough. he can’t focus his eyes on who rushes to his side. he doesn’t see whose hands press so hard to a wound he’s hardly a grasp on. all he knows is she’s begging ─ she’s praying to whatever god will listen ─ for him to stay with her.

               “ wr ─ “

it doesn’t come. the name doesn’t fall off lips painted dark with blood. he believes he tried to take her hand, but he isn’t sure; he feels like he’s still falling ─ like the world is spinning. faster, and faster, and he can hardly keep his eyes open.