DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
No commentary on the subject matter was probably best – the justifications of actions, the reason why he loathed leading in the first place, the pressure and weight on his shoulders, the amount of responsibility tied and tethered to his spine.
That the attention deviated to Zuriel was all the glory the unicorn required. Her haughty head raised ever so slightly; if the equine was capable of smirking, she would’ve done so, openly and with a batting of her eyes. Regal and ever-impressive, Deimos couldn’t deny the imperial nature. She’d had it from the very beginning, and continued to earn it well into their bond. “That is a story.” The light smile returned, an air of fondness extended towards the mare, who’d somehow managed to keep him, and many others, alive and whole more times than he could count. “Saved her from a landshark.” A simplified version perhaps, but then he leaned forward again, arms on the table, the glass forgotten once more.
Near death himself, dragging his vessel along towards the closest shrine, calling for Safrin to save those remaining in the Spire. “I had been wounded from a previous misadventure,” and he snorted, because that mere statement encompassed a multitude of errors and scars and heartache. “And when I came through the Fields, she was being chased. I went to intercept. Nearly lost my arm.” Stripped down, bone for bone and muscle for muscle. “My sword took care of the landshark, and Zuriel took care of me.” Healed, mended, soothed. "And then she stayed.” Bonded, thoughts (of which she had many) shared, trust keen, and far easier to understand than the connections forged, then cut and slashed and torn apart. “I owe her a lot.”
That the attention deviated to Zuriel was all the glory the unicorn required. Her haughty head raised ever so slightly; if the equine was capable of smirking, she would’ve done so, openly and with a batting of her eyes. Regal and ever-impressive, Deimos couldn’t deny the imperial nature. She’d had it from the very beginning, and continued to earn it well into their bond. “That is a story.” The light smile returned, an air of fondness extended towards the mare, who’d somehow managed to keep him, and many others, alive and whole more times than he could count. “Saved her from a landshark.” A simplified version perhaps, but then he leaned forward again, arms on the table, the glass forgotten once more.
Near death himself, dragging his vessel along towards the closest shrine, calling for Safrin to save those remaining in the Spire. “I had been wounded from a previous misadventure,” and he snorted, because that mere statement encompassed a multitude of errors and scars and heartache. “And when I came through the Fields, she was being chased. I went to intercept. Nearly lost my arm.” Stripped down, bone for bone and muscle for muscle. “My sword took care of the landshark, and Zuriel took care of me.” Healed, mended, soothed. "And then she stayed.” Bonded, thoughts (of which she had many) shared, trust keen, and far easier to understand than the connections forged, then cut and slashed and torn apart. “I owe her a lot.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
