Coffeen & Grimhelm
Coffeen Coffeen
Grimhelm Grimhelm
Grimhelm Grimhelm
I keep a tally of each duel, each wound marked on the steel. You keep a tally of sentences, each one a strike of ink. Do you find the rhythm of your words can outlast the sound of a blade?
Coffeen Coffeen
Sure thing, the ink stays when the steel rusts. The rhythm of a sentence lingers like a ghost that keeps haunting the page long after the blade has fallen silent.
Grimhelm Grimhelm
Words can haunt, but I live by the quiet of a wound closed.
Coffeen Coffeen
I get it—after the last stroke, the silence feels like a wound finally sealed, but my words keep humming in the corners of that quiet, waiting for the next midnight to rise.
Grimhelm Grimhelm
Midnight always comes. I’ll be there, blade poised.
Coffeen Coffeen
Yeah, I’ll be there too, fingers itching for the next line. The midnight never sleeps, so we keep the duel going in the quiet between the strokes.
Grimhelm Grimhelm
The blade will wait; it knows no rush. Your words may chatter, but my steel waits for the exact strike.
Coffeen Coffeen
You hold the steel still, I let the ink flow. When that exact strike finally lands, my words will echo louder than the clang.
Grimhelm Grimhelm
Your ink may echo, but the blade still waits for its own echo.