DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos had gone from restless doldrums to a stoic, composed, reticent figure all over again. A familiarity, with the way they marched into battle, took over from the trepidation, and all that was left in its place was a solid, stalwart wall of weaponry, armaments, and unease settling in between the bones of his ribcage. He wouldn’t share those sentiments however, staring out towards Starfall with a narrowed gaze, before his attention shifted between a passed blade.
His brows furrowed with the uncertainty layered there, but didn’t touch it with any other sentiments or tangible things. Instead, he took one long, low breath, and shouldered his bag of holding further along the plane of muscles – the ring Zavien had given him not forgotten, but laden in his pockets. “Ready when you all are,” once they made the necessary decisions and weapon transactions. “How do we want to go in?”
His brows furrowed with the uncertainty layered there, but didn’t touch it with any other sentiments or tangible things. Instead, he took one long, low breath, and shouldered his bag of holding further along the plane of muscles – the ring Zavien had given him not forgotten, but laden in his pockets. “Ready when you all are,” once they made the necessary decisions and weapon transactions. “How do we want to go in?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
