DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Daily rituals absorbed and consumed for the time being, kept him from becoming restless, from immersing his soul into further contemplations, damnation, or anything of such ilk. Instead, he remained preoccupied with either Artisan or General duties, hastening back and forth after the wedding and reception, digging into the earth and conspiring for further strength, further dominion (to be enough; as if the anthem would ever have repose or sanctum, as if it’d ever cease pressing its numbing ache into his ether).
So for the moment, it was the barracks, with its familiar edges and lacerating boundaries, a comfortable expression of his vigilance, strength, and accord. After shoveling out the freshly fallen snow, he’d taken to rolling up his sleeves, even in the chill (the mountains had been too embedded in his blood, a favored season skimming over flesh and blood), open to ruminations and concoctions. While he and many others seemed to enjoy the statuesque, immobile dummies and targets, he wanted to add some additional challenges, and with his creation magic back into its full power, there was no ceasing or desisting in the actions.
First, he contorted and concocted the frame, wooden beams, strong and sturdy, hastened under his beckoning, summoning, demanding enchantments. The invocations sprung, ignited, incensed, enticed, until they towered along his height and slightly beyond. The dummy was taken from another, and hung from the top, so it dangled, lifeless, but ready to be reeled, pulverized, and consumed. Perhaps that would better lend itself to others who wanted maneuvering fortitudes, assailants and adversaries coming to strike back. So the Sword eyed it, backing up a few steps to admire the fortifications.
{Open training thread!}
So for the moment, it was the barracks, with its familiar edges and lacerating boundaries, a comfortable expression of his vigilance, strength, and accord. After shoveling out the freshly fallen snow, he’d taken to rolling up his sleeves, even in the chill (the mountains had been too embedded in his blood, a favored season skimming over flesh and blood), open to ruminations and concoctions. While he and many others seemed to enjoy the statuesque, immobile dummies and targets, he wanted to add some additional challenges, and with his creation magic back into its full power, there was no ceasing or desisting in the actions.
First, he contorted and concocted the frame, wooden beams, strong and sturdy, hastened under his beckoning, summoning, demanding enchantments. The invocations sprung, ignited, incensed, enticed, until they towered along his height and slightly beyond. The dummy was taken from another, and hung from the top, so it dangled, lifeless, but ready to be reeled, pulverized, and consumed. Perhaps that would better lend itself to others who wanted maneuvering fortitudes, assailants and adversaries coming to strike back. So the Sword eyed it, backing up a few steps to admire the fortifications.
{Open training thread!}
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
