DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The ice broke away under their predilections and persistence, melting or altering into snow once more. Smooth and efficient, it was as if they’d done this almost every day (typically in this season), and had come into proficient operations. Deimos snorted when he noted Rhiannon, looking as though she was struggling not to fall asleep on the job. Shoveling wasn’t glamorous or interesting, so he didn’t give her much more than a wrinkle of his nose, nearly juvenile, as he passed by. “Rhiannon. How are things? Enjoying yourself?”
And, because he too sometimes needed a break from the tirades, he opted to pause for a moment, and form a perfect snowball. Then he launched it, innocently enough, towards the back of another guard in a further section, where it splattered in a large array and had the man wheeling around in confusion. Deimos, of course, pretended as if nothing was untoward and continued altering further sections of rime.
And, because he too sometimes needed a break from the tirades, he opted to pause for a moment, and form a perfect snowball. Then he launched it, innocently enough, towards the back of another guard in a further section, where it splattered in a large array and had the man wheeling around in confusion. Deimos, of course, pretended as if nothing was untoward and continued altering further sections of rime.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
