DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The only thing breaking over the stoic fold was an arch of his brow at the notions of helping him. And he might’ve said something else, had the stranger not persisted and continued, with notions of proposals and timely insinuations – a hand reaching forward – and Deimos not reaching back as introductions were made.
Dorian. Head of the Family.
The only imperceptible change in his demeanor to follow was a tilt of his head, all the calm, composed lines well practiced and versed, gaze sweeping over the other man, collecting depictions, images, securing them in his mind. The other was likely doing the same - and he pushed down the urge to clench his jaw. The notes of trepidation would come later, if at all, depending on how this situation churned and turned. “I see,” and he nodded, before summoning a long breath. “What sort of proposal?”
Dorian. Head of the Family.
The only imperceptible change in his demeanor to follow was a tilt of his head, all the calm, composed lines well practiced and versed, gaze sweeping over the other man, collecting depictions, images, securing them in his mind. The other was likely doing the same - and he pushed down the urge to clench his jaw. The notes of trepidation would come later, if at all, depending on how this situation churned and turned. “I see,” and he nodded, before summoning a long breath. “What sort of proposal?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
