DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Action, movement, motion, permitted him opportunities to commit to something other than wallowing, brooding, or sinking into despair. Leaving the Temple had helped, but everything else thereafter, pyres, funerals, brewed against his sanction. The Sword required routine, habitual circumstances, some commitment of maneuvering to gain a foothold over the surrounding, pervading maelstroms. So his first stop was the Artisan’s Guild, and once he’d wandered down the aisles of stalls, tools, merchandise, and kiosks, assured everyone and everything within were in one piece, his long strides took him back to the barracks.
This was the most familiar entity, aside from his own home or the bakery, and as he opened the front door, glanced over all the artifacts, the maps, the tables, a semblance of calm released over his chest. Here were emblems of strategy, of planning, of something beyond meaningless apertures, a sanctity, a sanctum, a sanctuary requiring nothing from him but his existence; to protect, to guard, to shelter. The monolith placed his bag down in a favored chair, content and satisfied with its idleness, before maneuvering through the armory, and then the training grounds.
The former maintained their proper glinting positions, weapons holstered and defiant – but the latter was a different story. Despite his careful insinuations and meticulous planning, the scene was a mess. Whether it’d been the monsters, storms mustered in ample fortitude, or anything else in between scarcely mattered in the end: bullseyes splayed out, broken or split, the wooden armaments often resting against the walls tossed across the sections of open plains, and pools where snow had thawed remained.
So he rolled up his sleeves, and started with the targets.
This was the most familiar entity, aside from his own home or the bakery, and as he opened the front door, glanced over all the artifacts, the maps, the tables, a semblance of calm released over his chest. Here were emblems of strategy, of planning, of something beyond meaningless apertures, a sanctity, a sanctum, a sanctuary requiring nothing from him but his existence; to protect, to guard, to shelter. The monolith placed his bag down in a favored chair, content and satisfied with its idleness, before maneuvering through the armory, and then the training grounds.
The former maintained their proper glinting positions, weapons holstered and defiant – but the latter was a different story. Despite his careful insinuations and meticulous planning, the scene was a mess. Whether it’d been the monsters, storms mustered in ample fortitude, or anything else in between scarcely mattered in the end: bullseyes splayed out, broken or split, the wooden armaments often resting against the walls tossed across the sections of open plains, and pools where snow had thawed remained.
So he rolled up his sleeves, and started with the targets.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
