DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword had taken the time to return home after stupendously stupid meetings, balls, and tirades through Stormbreak; drafting letters, placing gratitude where it belonged, and ensuring all was well within Halo, before beginning the next venture. He was hoping, truth be told, that it’d be the last trip he’d have to take for a while, save for things necessary for their regional quest, as most of Deepfrost had been spent in battles or political reaches.
This would be another of the latter, but he’d granted a conviction in the abysmal wake of pretenses and charades, and there was something to be said for how Danta had covered for many of them. Deimos kept his promises and extended acknowledgments and gratefulness when they were due, so when he had a moment, he sent a note along with one of the messengers about (hoping it reached the Ancient; he’d heard about his notion for letters). Waiting along The Last Whisper, his eyes drifted over the passersby, who seemed to be doing the same to him, before his gaze went entirely impassive and nonchalant, steeled in the presence of so many ghosts.
This would be another of the latter, but he’d granted a conviction in the abysmal wake of pretenses and charades, and there was something to be said for how Danta had covered for many of them. Deimos kept his promises and extended acknowledgments and gratefulness when they were due, so when he had a moment, he sent a note along with one of the messengers about (hoping it reached the Ancient; he’d heard about his notion for letters). Waiting along The Last Whisper, his eyes drifted over the passersby, who seemed to be doing the same to him, before his gaze went entirely impassive and nonchalant, steeled in the presence of so many ghosts.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
