DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
On the rise of Flowerbirth, on the ease in which they could finally slide into the next season. Amongst and amidst the pitfalls, the potential devastation, Deimos found himself longing for it. The change. The ability to leave the walls threatening to close in. But he could dread it too, all in one bountiful swing of emotions, because it signified some of their own may not return.
And he wasn’t certain he could deal with Kiada’s death again.
Even the notion of visiting, rebuilding the Grounds bristled against him, and he stopped eating, placing the snack down. The age-old apprehension buried and burrowed stirred once more, and he eased a few long, lingering breaths, aiming to stifle the wayward bounds. Zuriel, head tilted for the proper ear scratches, glanced his way, and his eyes lingered down on the table, subdued. “More than likely.” In what way, in what capacity, would be left to be determined.
And he wasn’t certain he could deal with Kiada’s death again.
Even the notion of visiting, rebuilding the Grounds bristled against him, and he stopped eating, placing the snack down. The age-old apprehension buried and burrowed stirred once more, and he eased a few long, lingering breaths, aiming to stifle the wayward bounds. Zuriel, head tilted for the proper ear scratches, glanced his way, and his eyes lingered down on the table, subdued. “More than likely.” In what way, in what capacity, would be left to be determined.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
