DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Perhaps misery loved company; but he had no intention of crawling down into that space with her. Melancholic for seasons, where he’d been inexplicably drowning for multitudes of passing days, weeks, and months, he’d struggled and strived to rise above the tides of agony, depression, and anguish – and had no intentions of sauntering into the siren song, the allure, the spell, of breaking apart.
But he’d stay there with her – because he knew what it meant, to suffer, to be tormented, to be smothered, contorted, and scalded into those pieces.
Elbows on the table, head in his hands, drink by his arm, he listened – the story weaving its way through the barracks’ parlor, pieces of the past, little revelations, he hadn’t known. And though Deimos kept his stories and mythos under tight, entrenched trappings, he could only vaguely recall some of Aisha’s – so he tilted his head, taking it in, absorbing what she had to offer and share.
No abandoned, no defined lines of who held what – similar to that of Helovia, where nearly all of them had been immersed with incantations. He smirked, snorted, at the notion of ‘robovamps’, and then strived to envision this world of leopard shifters, the Khai, between tigers, the Khan. His eyes narrowed at her grimace, at the notions of something else conforming – and sure enough, a village burned to the ground. Then she ceased, so he gently prodded. “What did you do?” How did they react?
The Sword knew how Basiners would’ve responded. Were they of similar ilks? Or were there other factions, other motivations, other designs, plots, and plans from worlds beyond?
But he’d stay there with her – because he knew what it meant, to suffer, to be tormented, to be smothered, contorted, and scalded into those pieces.
Elbows on the table, head in his hands, drink by his arm, he listened – the story weaving its way through the barracks’ parlor, pieces of the past, little revelations, he hadn’t known. And though Deimos kept his stories and mythos under tight, entrenched trappings, he could only vaguely recall some of Aisha’s – so he tilted his head, taking it in, absorbing what she had to offer and share.
No abandoned, no defined lines of who held what – similar to that of Helovia, where nearly all of them had been immersed with incantations. He smirked, snorted, at the notion of ‘robovamps’, and then strived to envision this world of leopard shifters, the Khai, between tigers, the Khan. His eyes narrowed at her grimace, at the notions of something else conforming – and sure enough, a village burned to the ground. Then she ceased, so he gently prodded. “What did you do?” How did they react?
The Sword knew how Basiners would’ve responded. Were they of similar ilks? Or were there other factions, other motivations, other designs, plots, and plans from worlds beyond?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
