DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Retribution and retaliation was one of the single-most tempting, enticing things in his battle-forged mind. To return the punishments, to assault in similar, awe-inspiring assailments, to lay siege and waste to those who’d dared. Sometimes it was feasible. Sometimes it wasn’t. The latter was the most disappointing – because for all the rage, for all the fury, for all the might instilled in the fabric of their everyday lives, it could amount to nothing. How many hours had he traced the compound of his kingdoms, of his fortresses, training, guarding, shielding, ensuring those within his ranks were ready, capable, and able? Only for it to fall flat?
He snorted in response to politics; scraping his drink across the table, back and forth between his palms. The Sword didn’t do well in diplomacy either – preferences eternally inclining towards waged bombardments. But he’d still signed peace treaties, when it had been for the good of his own. When they couldn’t do anything else. When there was naught more to be committed, acted upon, when their heads were weary and their lives were drawn across battlefields with no end in sight. When stalemates coiled and the inevitable sunk between bones.
The beast had no talent for it. Never an orchestrator of words, of little turns of phrase to appeal and impact a crowd, a forum, a council. He was action, and then silence. The motions, the movements, the presence, often did the speaking for him.
There was a sigh embedded somewhere amidst her words, the way the vengeance would never play out, the way it was cut short by other methods, means, and motives. “What would you have done?” A chance, an opportunity, to unleash her plans – even if it couldn’t become tangible measures.
He snorted in response to politics; scraping his drink across the table, back and forth between his palms. The Sword didn’t do well in diplomacy either – preferences eternally inclining towards waged bombardments. But he’d still signed peace treaties, when it had been for the good of his own. When they couldn’t do anything else. When there was naught more to be committed, acted upon, when their heads were weary and their lives were drawn across battlefields with no end in sight. When stalemates coiled and the inevitable sunk between bones.
The beast had no talent for it. Never an orchestrator of words, of little turns of phrase to appeal and impact a crowd, a forum, a council. He was action, and then silence. The motions, the movements, the presence, often did the speaking for him.
There was a sigh embedded somewhere amidst her words, the way the vengeance would never play out, the way it was cut short by other methods, means, and motives. “What would you have done?” A chance, an opportunity, to unleash her plans – even if it couldn’t become tangible measures.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
