DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
If they were going to be airing truths, Deimos wanted nothing more than to return home. The air of responsibility clung to him like a mantle, and their latest efforts proved there were far more threats, perils, and hazards than they could’ve fathomed. But Torchline needed assistance, and there was the possibility of reaching out to the Greatwood, and then Maea was asking – it was as though there was no escape from the monumental weights – for he wouldn’t leave another without means of defense, nor newfound knowledge of the craft.
So his gaze was a stoic, reticent one as it glanced upon her once more, along the weapon in her hands, and the scattered beach that was to be an arena again. Half of his mind wondered if she’d advanced at all in their time from broken barbs amidst the Grounds, from dying and yielding to Mort, to scraping by with the Voice, and chiseling away as an Ancient. She might not have had moments amidst the parallels and perils of survival. Or maybe she’d had too many.
He wouldn’t fathom her reasons for choosing him either, save for experiences and wakes upon haunted precipices. He’d started many on their journeys in their defensive and offensive arts. Some stayed the course. Others didn’t bother. “If you want,” came on his solid and grumbled reply, restless hands already tying back his long hair, out of the way for the coming brush of angles and sieges. “Will you be using the chakram?”
So his gaze was a stoic, reticent one as it glanced upon her once more, along the weapon in her hands, and the scattered beach that was to be an arena again. Half of his mind wondered if she’d advanced at all in their time from broken barbs amidst the Grounds, from dying and yielding to Mort, to scraping by with the Voice, and chiseling away as an Ancient. She might not have had moments amidst the parallels and perils of survival. Or maybe she’d had too many.
He wouldn’t fathom her reasons for choosing him either, save for experiences and wakes upon haunted precipices. He’d started many on their journeys in their defensive and offensive arts. Some stayed the course. Others didn’t bother. “If you want,” came on his solid and grumbled reply, restless hands already tying back his long hair, out of the way for the coming brush of angles and sieges. “Will you be using the chakram?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
