Iron in my wake

DEIMOS

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

The Barracks had been a cacophony of movement, sound, blades and incantations, streamlined into notions of adherence and discipline. A favorite pastime, amidst all the other responsibilities chiseled across his shoulders, and something he would’ve painstakingly carved into his schedule for the day, had he not received a message about an hour into the spars and skirmishes. A guard stalked his way in, passing the Warden a note. With a heavy sigh, Deimos peeled it open, read the words scrawled, and pocketed it – beginning to make his exit with a few waves of his hand, nods, and notions of encouragement, heading back out into the sprawl of snow.

Noah’s message hadn’t indicated anything in particular, but his mind was already conjuring potentials and possibilities. The trepidation stirring in his chest was something residual – a certain semblance of dread that always stuck directly against his ribcage – for the Forsaken hadn’t granted him good news in quite some time.

Threading his way over to the newest hot springs, aptly named Safrin’s Mirror, his brow arched at the demigod’s presence – clearly something wasn’t wholly dreadful, if he was taking the time to soak in the heat. “Noah,” he rumbled thereafter, head tilting as a long breath sorted its way through his lungs. “What did you need?”

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