DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He scrutinized and examined, the same narrowed contortions to his furrowed brows; watched as Oliver’s recent flailings turned to naught but the same, an indulgence towards the Sword perhaps, but not himself. It might’ve been a method that worked on others: to agree, to nod one’s head, to hope and pray they moved along, but it would only be Oliver’s follow-up actions that would riddle or rankle any truth from the words he sought to exude. Deimos had heard excuse after excuse, but not commitment. Not promises. Not conviction. Instead, the blacksmith seemed apt to petulance, and the General was left uncertain of what else to say or do, to accomplish anything. They felt like the same tides roaring in, a grating zeal, a fixture of nothingness, before receding, empty, vague, and hollow.
That Oliver had apparently forgotten what he’d tasked him with in their last individual one-on-one training was disappointing, and another long-suffering sigh trailed through his lungs. “I asked you to watch members of the same species as your shifts. Like cats. How they hunt. How they move. How to better acquaint yourself with possibilities.” But that the other man had managed to do something within his shifts and observations was enough for the moment, and he gave a quick nod, figuring that’d be enough for the moment. A step forward, rather than a hundred back.
The inquiry layered upon him in return caused the slightest arch of his brow, but otherwise he continuing maintaining the nonchalant poise. “I was born with life drain.” Refined in its deadly prowess from the beginning, but not honed, not mastered, until well after. “We practiced much the same as I strive with all of you. Targets, mobile or immobile. Skirmishes. Duels. The militia ensured we were ready for battle through weaponry and magic.” All his other incantations and enchantments had come from here; and he’d utilized them in sojourns, in quests, in dangerous dispositions. “I failed frequently. I still do. But I do not give up.”
That Oliver had apparently forgotten what he’d tasked him with in their last individual one-on-one training was disappointing, and another long-suffering sigh trailed through his lungs. “I asked you to watch members of the same species as your shifts. Like cats. How they hunt. How they move. How to better acquaint yourself with possibilities.” But that the other man had managed to do something within his shifts and observations was enough for the moment, and he gave a quick nod, figuring that’d be enough for the moment. A step forward, rather than a hundred back.
The inquiry layered upon him in return caused the slightest arch of his brow, but otherwise he continuing maintaining the nonchalant poise. “I was born with life drain.” Refined in its deadly prowess from the beginning, but not honed, not mastered, until well after. “We practiced much the same as I strive with all of you. Targets, mobile or immobile. Skirmishes. Duels. The militia ensured we were ready for battle through weaponry and magic.” All his other incantations and enchantments had come from here; and he’d utilized them in sojourns, in quests, in dangerous dispositions. “I failed frequently. I still do. But I do not give up.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
