closed starter for @wcnderingsovls
Even in darkness, his senses are sharp, the grip of his sword is steady, the swing of icon cuts the air with precision; his movements are swift, elegant, the flutter of his white robes against the warm canvas of Celembron like a gracious dove soaring across autumn skies, dry leaves and dust rising from the ground in this rhythmic dance against an invisible foe. The children of Braxigar know blood from the moment they come into this world, their teeth are sharp, their skin is thicker, their hands are always curled into fists. A Nuwa knows combat with the same intimacy most children know their mother's voice, it sings in their blood like a lullaby, it calls to them, it soothes them when nothing else can—and when their fingers curl around the grip of their sword, it is with the unwavering certainty that it is a part of them, an extension of their arm, of their will, forged into steel.
Hensheng has been there for him when no one and nothing else was, a constant, reliable friend, if you could call a weapon that—he did. He had come to think of it as such. It was a comforting thought, and knew he could always rely on it in his times of need, that it would not fail him if all else did. He clung to it now like a small child, helpless and desperate, hoping against reason that it could soothe the storm brewing in him because nothing else sufficed.
He could not fix it, he could sway his sword and strike the gods, and still he not fix any of this—he had failed, once more he had failed and his knees crumbled at the thought. What was the use for him if he could not protect those he loved? He wished then, the ground would crack open and swallow him whole, and he felt himself fall to to his knees as something jagged stabbed at his lungs from within—the lord clutched it—the invisible ache—hoping to tear this ailment from him, and all the air was pulled from his lungs.
The grass, softer, kinder to him than he himself could ever allow himself be, cushioned his fall—and it was not long before he felt the warmth of arms, of hands, and immediately does he want to refuse the kindness, to flinch and drag himself away to lick his own wounds; but the waft of a scent he knew too well caught his nostrils, disarming him some. Why does she always find him at his most pitiable? "...Aeliana," he calls to her like a lamenting wolf, wounded, trying to growl and bare its teeth when it lacked any strength to do so anymore. "Let go." he demanded with all the wilfulness of a stubborn child, making no effort to dislodge himself from her, sounding all too exhausted and pliant in her arms.
