DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He laughed in response, light, not so heavy, not so cumbersome, not so weighted down by the angles of before or after. He toyed with his glass some more, considered refilling it, but by way of memories and their target painting, it was left empty. There would be other days, other moments, other measures where amusement and enjoyment could fill the halls again. They had to merely hunker down, bide their time, remain in their isolated juncture for a few weeks more (and pretend, in the back of his mind somewhere, that LongNight wasn’t a dreadful wake possibly consuming some of his brethren).
The Sword didn’t expect the inquiry to be launched back upon him – anything else he’d altered and shared previously had been by way of distraction. His fingers drummed once more upon the glass, before he kept shifting it in between his hands; stifling some measure of vehemence at the thought of the target’s face, painted from beyond in the other rooms and grounds. He hadn’t gone to maul her yet. Perhaps he needed the right motivation, the right goal in mind, to finally spin her head clean off her neck, her shoulders. The beast leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the table, not lifting, settling the smile off and away, replacing it with only an edge of a furrowed brow. “Confutatis.” The last syllables were nearly hissed. She likely would enjoy the notion that she still weighed on his mind years and lives down the road, a vengeance unfulfilled. “She had a group that targeted our kingdom. Kept trying to take the children.”
And he’d rampaged and shadowed and tailed the little dastardly creatures in his way. He didn’t want to imagine what she would’ve done with them, had her claws sunk in and her methods been pressed. “I defeated her, but never had the opportunity to kill her.” To put that final nail in the coffin, to watch her bleed out and die before his eyes. A life faded and gone and done. “Eventually, she disappeared.”
The Sword didn’t expect the inquiry to be launched back upon him – anything else he’d altered and shared previously had been by way of distraction. His fingers drummed once more upon the glass, before he kept shifting it in between his hands; stifling some measure of vehemence at the thought of the target’s face, painted from beyond in the other rooms and grounds. He hadn’t gone to maul her yet. Perhaps he needed the right motivation, the right goal in mind, to finally spin her head clean off her neck, her shoulders. The beast leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the table, not lifting, settling the smile off and away, replacing it with only an edge of a furrowed brow. “Confutatis.” The last syllables were nearly hissed. She likely would enjoy the notion that she still weighed on his mind years and lives down the road, a vengeance unfulfilled. “She had a group that targeted our kingdom. Kept trying to take the children.”
And he’d rampaged and shadowed and tailed the little dastardly creatures in his way. He didn’t want to imagine what she would’ve done with them, had her claws sunk in and her methods been pressed. “I defeated her, but never had the opportunity to kill her.” To put that final nail in the coffin, to watch her bleed out and die before his eyes. A life faded and gone and done. “Eventually, she disappeared.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
