DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Erebos was placated for the time being, eagerly waving his hands again in some victorious, infant declaration, before moving on to striving to place his mittens in his mouth. Deimos snorted, ultimately amused by the entire interaction, before glancing over his shoulder to see the fabric nearly within the youth’s threshold, and promptly yanking them aside. That’d be something they needed to work on.
While Rhiannon worked, the Sword inspected, pulling at a few gears, then tilting his head in a mischievous glint. Before long, he’d snagged at a pile of snow laden across the wall, and worked it into a sphere within his own gloved digits, before placing it along the bucket of the trebuchet. “Not as often as I would like,” he admitted with a low rumble – given the circumstances of his station. He started cranking the lever again, slowly, ensuring everything was working in proper order. “Probably once a season at best.” Others could be doing it. Perhaps he’d add it to patrol duties.
Eventually the armament felt the tug of impending launching – and did exactly that. Within a small moment, much to the delight of both father and son, the machine hurled and flung the snowball with quick and vicious ease, a hurried ascent followed by an ultimate demise into a distant target some yards away. Erebos giggled and clapped his hands, while Deimos pretended like nothing out of the norm had occurred, stepping to the next weapon, making polite inquiries thereafter. “How is your family?”
While Rhiannon worked, the Sword inspected, pulling at a few gears, then tilting his head in a mischievous glint. Before long, he’d snagged at a pile of snow laden across the wall, and worked it into a sphere within his own gloved digits, before placing it along the bucket of the trebuchet. “Not as often as I would like,” he admitted with a low rumble – given the circumstances of his station. He started cranking the lever again, slowly, ensuring everything was working in proper order. “Probably once a season at best.” Others could be doing it. Perhaps he’d add it to patrol duties.
Eventually the armament felt the tug of impending launching – and did exactly that. Within a small moment, much to the delight of both father and son, the machine hurled and flung the snowball with quick and vicious ease, a hurried ascent followed by an ultimate demise into a distant target some yards away. Erebos giggled and clapped his hands, while Deimos pretended like nothing out of the norm had occurred, stepping to the next weapon, making polite inquiries thereafter. “How is your family?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
