DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos relied on many things; his enchantments, his strength, his fortitude, his might; all things cultivated and grown on his experience, determination, and sagacity. None of them had come overnight – only through years of perseverance, walls around heartache, and the resolve sculpted, carved, and whittled over his bones. If it seemed easy to him, that was from parallels of machinations and proficiency, masterful practice across seasons upon seasons. She didn’t say anything to counter his notions, save for a light shrug, and he snorted in response, maneuvering more of the snow and unfurling portions of the ice once more, watching as it cracked apart.
He wouldn’t need to glance back at the soldier for a reaction – it was clear in a vivid snort and brief umbrage and outrage, beginning to accuse his friends nearby. When they scoffed, the Sword merely arched his brow and hid his amusement, pondering if he should continue to harass the youth or merely move on to bothering another while they worked.
Though Rhiannon had inquiries apparently, and he paused in his ministrations, gaze flickering back to her. No one had really asked him such a question, and he had to take a moment to pierce and lance through the answers. “Reassuring,” he offered first, watching again as rime dissipated into nothing more than snow or cascading, rippling droplets. “To know and feel that power – and to understand how it works. That you can control and wield it to your preferences.” Alter the elements. Protect loved ones. Shelter an entire sanctity. Bend and break one’s enemies. “But it did not happen instantly,” he reminded her, should she begin to remark upon it. He’d been like her before, practicing and trying and striving and feeling like the wheels were only spinning.
He wouldn’t need to glance back at the soldier for a reaction – it was clear in a vivid snort and brief umbrage and outrage, beginning to accuse his friends nearby. When they scoffed, the Sword merely arched his brow and hid his amusement, pondering if he should continue to harass the youth or merely move on to bothering another while they worked.
Though Rhiannon had inquiries apparently, and he paused in his ministrations, gaze flickering back to her. No one had really asked him such a question, and he had to take a moment to pierce and lance through the answers. “Reassuring,” he offered first, watching again as rime dissipated into nothing more than snow or cascading, rippling droplets. “To know and feel that power – and to understand how it works. That you can control and wield it to your preferences.” Alter the elements. Protect loved ones. Shelter an entire sanctity. Bend and break one’s enemies. “But it did not happen instantly,” he reminded her, should she begin to remark upon it. He’d been like her before, practicing and trying and striving and feeling like the wheels were only spinning.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
