DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Since she persisted in the reel of petulance, he opted not to respond, save with a snort, dignified and muffled. His eyes went to two glasses in the cabinets, and a tumbler of whiskey that still contained a decent amount, grabbing all three and bringing them towards the table. The clink resounded against the wood, quiet while he worked.
Zuriel provided a relative distraction, a tilt of her head in almost near-mimicry of her companion’s habitual, predatory movements, advancing towards Aisha. Her muzzle drew towards the woman’s hands, soft breaths coasting, wafting, an easygoing temperament despite her usual haughty nature. Almost as if she were inspecting, devising, and ordaining possibilities – but even her magic had limitations. Even if she bent her head and placed her horn upon the swordswoman’s shoulder, it wouldn’t have done any good. She shook her massive cranium, almost apologetic, but didn’t back away, in case Aisha still craved comfort.
Deimos expected some sort of common sickness – a cold, perhaps. Nothing like the recent suffering – she didn’t appear to be hallucinating, dehydrated, or otherwise out of her mind. Thinking to ease her discontent with a hot toddy, the Sword poured the mixture together (lemons honey, melded in between) and then concocted one for himself. Fire incantations ensured they were warmed, and as he was passing it over, sliding it along the surface, her answer came.
A curse.
Entirely different then – and something feathered in his jaw; a muscle, brows furrowing slightly. There was no humor in his features, and he sat down, fingers going around the glass. “In what capacity?” He was familiar with Chulane’s – who once held a long, lasting sunburn – but couldn’t recall many others.
Zuriel provided a relative distraction, a tilt of her head in almost near-mimicry of her companion’s habitual, predatory movements, advancing towards Aisha. Her muzzle drew towards the woman’s hands, soft breaths coasting, wafting, an easygoing temperament despite her usual haughty nature. Almost as if she were inspecting, devising, and ordaining possibilities – but even her magic had limitations. Even if she bent her head and placed her horn upon the swordswoman’s shoulder, it wouldn’t have done any good. She shook her massive cranium, almost apologetic, but didn’t back away, in case Aisha still craved comfort.
Deimos expected some sort of common sickness – a cold, perhaps. Nothing like the recent suffering – she didn’t appear to be hallucinating, dehydrated, or otherwise out of her mind. Thinking to ease her discontent with a hot toddy, the Sword poured the mixture together (lemons honey, melded in between) and then concocted one for himself. Fire incantations ensured they were warmed, and as he was passing it over, sliding it along the surface, her answer came.
A curse.
Entirely different then – and something feathered in his jaw; a muscle, brows furrowing slightly. There was no humor in his features, and he sat down, fingers going around the glass. “In what capacity?” He was familiar with Chulane’s – who once held a long, lasting sunburn – but couldn’t recall many others.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
