[o] where the spirit meets the bones

DEIMOS

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

“Maybe,” he gave over with a vague and juvenile wrinkle to his nose. “I have gotten better,” was a brief admission followed by a snort. Deimos had always been a creature of control – perhaps because there’d been days where he’d had so little of it – desperate to meticulously and painstakingly press whatever he could into his days, ensuring everything was done and completed to the fullest decree and degree. He’d had to give some portions of it away; new roles and responsibilities had him constantly meandering along the brink of burdens and necessities, but trust was valuable and difficult to maintain all in one fell swoop. “You are more than welcome to check when you have time.” Which, given who he was, said a lot for his faith in the soldier before him.

He snagged at another crossbow, checking the gears and notches as Rhiannon described her family’s components, granting a small smile as Erebos continued clapping and maneuvering around – likely hoping for another arc of ridiculousness from the trebuchet nearby. “Hm. If one of us sent someone over to help him, would he accept it?” He and Evie had much work done of their house before they’d been married – a good thing, considering how quickly Erebos had come thereafter – and had hired a determined group of steadfast Halovian carpenters.

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