DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
In normal parameters, there wasn’t satisfaction in treaties. In alliances. In armistices. And while one could claim their people were safe for another day, what truly ceased the enemies and adversaries from stopping entirely? Not a piece of paper, with signatures scrawled across the document. Death. Imprisonment. Something else to desist, to ensure others wouldn’t follow suit. How many times had he hunted down another, only for the rest of the world yearning for their survival? How many times had he yearned to press his blade a little harder, straight into the heart, the chest, the lungs? How many times had he simply not been stopped?
And then more and more circumstances; a spiral, a labyrinth, a conjecture. Possibilities fragmented and gone, wiped out, for another to take its place. Because there was always something, somewhere, rising and snaking around like an asp, waiting for their opportunity to strike.
Deimos took another swallow, polishing off the rest of his drink, letting the glass sit on the table while his fingers drummed against it once more. Quiet and methodical, mulling and musing, eyes going to Zuriel, who still angled along Aisha’s shoulder, content for the moment. “You can always recreate him as a target.” A little cathartic, trying to instill some measure of humor into the breadth of the chill. “It is not the same,” and he knew, for it wasn’t reality. “But sometimes it is nice to feel a measure of it coming to fruition.” A shrug followed, incapable of doing anything else for her.
And then more and more circumstances; a spiral, a labyrinth, a conjecture. Possibilities fragmented and gone, wiped out, for another to take its place. Because there was always something, somewhere, rising and snaking around like an asp, waiting for their opportunity to strike.
Deimos took another swallow, polishing off the rest of his drink, letting the glass sit on the table while his fingers drummed against it once more. Quiet and methodical, mulling and musing, eyes going to Zuriel, who still angled along Aisha’s shoulder, content for the moment. “You can always recreate him as a target.” A little cathartic, trying to instill some measure of humor into the breadth of the chill. “It is not the same,” and he knew, for it wasn’t reality. “But sometimes it is nice to feel a measure of it coming to fruition.” A shrug followed, incapable of doing anything else for her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
