LEONINE FAITH.

silken trashbag for @templion

        the sparring ring and all things relative to it were CERTAINLY the last place boniface belonged, nonetheless where anyone would expect to see him. however that is precisely where he had been for the better part of the early morning. the sun had only just risen and the cool golden rays cast upon the soldiers and recruits that rose with it. despite the dirt and mud everywhere and the splintered post upon which he leaned, he appeared untouched by it all and remained EFFORTLESSLY GRACEFUL in his demeanor.

        every now and again someone would catch his gaze and he would smile, wave, coyly tilt his head downward in a manner one might mistake for BASHFUL or twirl one long lock of ebony hair about his finger. truthfully fighting wasn’t among the many skillsets in his repertoire, but he did so delight in watching it all come together.  ❝ morning, commander.  ❞ said without so much as a sideways glance to the presence not far from his right. rather he pulled the silken train of his garb away from the fence and draped it over his own lap, allowing an EMPTY SPACE next to him. ❝ why don’t you sit for a moment? tell me of your troops. ❞

          The crisp, morning air of SKYHOLD does much to quell his turbulent mind from the night before, and it is a comfortable sort of cold : the kind that is enough to feel like pierced ice against flesh but gentle enough to feel like simply a brush of the air. The practice sword in his hands is planted into the soil, watching as THE TROOPS continue their work on forming a shield wall at the command of RYLEN. Simply being here is enough, he supposes, and it gives him a reason to keep fighting, helps him remember what this holy war must mean to him, to everyone who offers themselves up to it.

THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY   ╱   accepting

          Even now, when his arms cross, he feels the stress of his gloves when he digs into his arms. The flashes are brief but there : the darkness of THE TOWER WALLS, the claws grasping at ankles and arms, stained swords and broken shields, and blood… so much blood. Even in daylight, it is hard to forget what his sobs sounded like choked back in his lungs, how the mantra of A PRAYER lost its meaning as the days grew longer, harder, more alone. But he blinks, and it is gone ; not vanished forever, but temporarily, and he is grateful enough, though he still feels their scares in hatred, in fear, in scorn that he knew like a brother, that he kept like a friend, and that betrayed him just as painfully.