[o] where the spirit meets the bones

DEIMOS

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

If Deimos could find someone willing to do his paperwork, he would – as such, he avoided it for as long as he was able under certain circumstances. There were too many hordes of other things he’d willingly apply himself to (and enjoy); though he figured delegating letters and parchment was probably poor form on its own inhospitable merits. The other notions went hand-in-hand – more experienced soldiers could take over portions of instruction or patrols; but the Sword still wanted to be a part of them, and the same could be said for guild activities. All in all, he prevailed with his head above the water, refusing to relent, and finding ways and opportunities to maintain some manner of repose throughout the daily fortitude. Better, for certain, because he wasn’t purposefully losing himself in his work, or maintaining a massive conflagration so as not to feel or think or exist; there were just ample amounts of life to take care of.

Snagging a sword and simply removing the coating of ice and snow from it, he arched a brow at Rhiannon’s answer. Maybe it was a manner of pride, or not wanting to ask for help - that he could understand and comprehend. “Well, let us know if need be. We can probably arrange something.” A quirk of a very juvenile grin formed in the corner of his mouth; eager for multitudes of sedition. Kind duplicity didn’t seem too haphazard to the Warden, especially when it was all in beneficial nuances.

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