reeds would become swords

DEIMOS

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

Experiences and ventures of lethal and dangerous varieties sometimes made him appreciate his own region more and more – the cold, bewitching air, the glacial expanse, the freezing tundra laden with treacherous beauty; an entanglement of survival, intimidation, and steadfastness that crept into his bones and stayed there while they strived to undo vicious and vile portions in another world. So upon returning, after mending, after speaking to Vi, he simply existed in the sovereignty he’d missed over the past weeks.

Back and forth diatribes and conversations with others, plotting, planning, and infusing multiple nuances to cover their impacts, had left him bereft of the place he called home – and wandering down the streets, swinging back into the marketplace, snagging at treats for persisting, enduring, and his family – gave him exactly the repose he’d craved. Shoulders a tad lighter, he waited in line with several other citizens, still towering above almost all; Belial at his heels and Zuriel surveying, watching, from a chosen bench, intending to grab a quick bite, then perhaps spend some time at home in front of the fire, catching up on things he’d missed.

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