DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Despite the youth’s inclinations of understanding, Deimos wasn’t so certain. Up until these moments, there’d been either a hovering petulance, a whining grate, or entitled predilection to their actions, as if they expected supremacy, and continued to be shocked when it wasn’t immediately obtained. Domination over enchantments and invocations was a skill in precision, in practice, and he couldn’t recall anyone being able to compel it wholly without some fault, without some frailty. His voice echoed and reverberated, deepened tones attempting to crack through the thickened skull, for Oliver just to listen. “No one can claim perfection over their magic. But they can practice, and wield it to the best of their ability.”
But then the rambling notions began, and the Sword stood there, a parallel of silence against a rampage of words that held distorted, and sometimes opposing meanings. There was a tilt of his head in singular confusion over not being cursed, about not being able to learn to use their magic fully, and then wanting to do it all the same. In the end then, the justification was there, and so the General adhered to those parameters. “So do it.” Simple, nothing complex, nothing perplexing – commit to action and correspond readily. The more he practiced, the more he’d react by muscle memory, instead of getting stuck in his thoughts, moored and anchored down by minute manifestations.
He paused, considering. “Have you done as I instructed before?” With watching cats, larger or smaller, with how they moved, with how they presided, so he could become a better predator, understand the motions in his attuned accord? Or had that been ignored as well – his advice scorned, forgotten, and not given any other thought the moment he left the training grounds?
But then the rambling notions began, and the Sword stood there, a parallel of silence against a rampage of words that held distorted, and sometimes opposing meanings. There was a tilt of his head in singular confusion over not being cursed, about not being able to learn to use their magic fully, and then wanting to do it all the same. In the end then, the justification was there, and so the General adhered to those parameters. “So do it.” Simple, nothing complex, nothing perplexing – commit to action and correspond readily. The more he practiced, the more he’d react by muscle memory, instead of getting stuck in his thoughts, moored and anchored down by minute manifestations.
He paused, considering. “Have you done as I instructed before?” With watching cats, larger or smaller, with how they moved, with how they presided, so he could become a better predator, understand the motions in his attuned accord? Or had that been ignored as well – his advice scorned, forgotten, and not given any other thought the moment he left the training grounds?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
