ready now, not waiting for the afterlife

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

For all his stoicism and reticence, the statements ushered thereafter had his brows arch, then furrow, contemplating on what basis Noah could mean. In the Sword’s mind, there were no apt comparisons between the Wraith and her assemblage of powerful, potent Ascended, nor the Voice, when pinpointing upon the Forsaken. The damage done by them had been plenty and consuming, enough to eventually unwind into wars and cataclysms, paths taken to disturbing, incredulous levels, spurred and spurned on in exponential damage. So he went with simplicity first, striving to render where Noah seemed to place himself amidst the confines. “But you are not controlling anyone, nor forcing your belief on them. They have always had the right to choose.” There would be those who always stayed within the Grounds. Or moved, as most of them had done when lands unfurled before their eyes.

Considering further, his eyes glanced over the horizon, watching other clouds build, move, and maneuver. “Assisting in rebuilding, nor preaching about Vi’s power, is not the same as what so many others have done.” Because in the end, if the world didn’t want to listen, they didn’t have to – the same way it’d always been. “Do the Grounds have a leader now?” He had his suspicions in Dantalion, but there hadn’t been any confirmation – just a mere wandering into their latest meeting.

From there he sighed though, a shake to his head to break up the cacophony building there. “Just send word and we can be here.”

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead