DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword had made complimentary remarks towards Rexanna and her position because he’d known her so long, understood her capabilities, worked alongside her in juxtaposition as they strived to counter fellow foes. He knew Evie well, but not her abilities as a leader. “Yes.” A pause after the Wordsworth title; from what he’d learned, either from scraps of Samuel’s nerves, apprehension, Evie’s notion of hiding her incantations, and Amalia’s connections, just the throne alone had been a symbol of overcoming the lineage’s judgmental tendencies. “I have faith in her.” Strength, endurance, and fortitude made up her backbone, he’d seen it firsthand; ensuring she had the perseverance and wherewithal to carry on with upcoming trials would be a test of mettle, fire, and grit. These were new grounds for her to step upon – and he wouldn’t sweep her under the rug so readily. But his loyalty had never been bought, nor fed to layers and lacquer of a crown, but the fiber, the character, of the individual.
That Halo didn’t have any troubles during LongNight, at least not like theirs, was some assortment of better news. Thereafter though was a repeat of what Kiada had wrote to him, and he faced it all with an indiscernible gaze, the losses not heavy but the notion of guards perished sent a primordial twinge down his spine (he’d known those feelings all too well). “Revenge against Neron? For what?” He tilted his head, but his eyes roamed back down to the finishing touches of his stitching, the insinuations from Kiada’s letters about the Eirachi, and cultists coming vaguely together. Then there was always the underlying concerns of a certain Merciless. “What of Zariah?”
He didn’t pry any further than that – not asking about defenses, sieges, or assaults, comprehending the pieces that no one ever wanted to give away to another land. He’d done the same time and time again; leaving out details and broader pictures, simply to ensure his kingdom remained protected. The beast maneuvered along the grounds, removing more and more puddles and pools as he went, replacing the targets, moving them back out, where they belonged. Morgan had set about her task, and the inquiry didn’t bother him, a haphazard shrug thrown in as he lifted a sheet covering the catapult. “It seems to depend. I have not fought them personally,” as he was often in the sanction and sanctums, holding the fort while others ventured out on their godly tasks. “Magic is more effective.” Capable of adhering to more than one thing at a time, he carefully inspected the wooden structure’s armaments, ensuring nothing was too damaged or out of place. “The monsters wield physical and psychological torture.” Both of which the monolith had endured.
That Halo didn’t have any troubles during LongNight, at least not like theirs, was some assortment of better news. Thereafter though was a repeat of what Kiada had wrote to him, and he faced it all with an indiscernible gaze, the losses not heavy but the notion of guards perished sent a primordial twinge down his spine (he’d known those feelings all too well). “Revenge against Neron? For what?” He tilted his head, but his eyes roamed back down to the finishing touches of his stitching, the insinuations from Kiada’s letters about the Eirachi, and cultists coming vaguely together. Then there was always the underlying concerns of a certain Merciless. “What of Zariah?”
He didn’t pry any further than that – not asking about defenses, sieges, or assaults, comprehending the pieces that no one ever wanted to give away to another land. He’d done the same time and time again; leaving out details and broader pictures, simply to ensure his kingdom remained protected. The beast maneuvered along the grounds, removing more and more puddles and pools as he went, replacing the targets, moving them back out, where they belonged. Morgan had set about her task, and the inquiry didn’t bother him, a haphazard shrug thrown in as he lifted a sheet covering the catapult. “It seems to depend. I have not fought them personally,” as he was often in the sanction and sanctums, holding the fort while others ventured out on their godly tasks. “Magic is more effective.” Capable of adhering to more than one thing at a time, he carefully inspected the wooden structure’s armaments, ensuring nothing was too damaged or out of place. “The monsters wield physical and psychological torture.” Both of which the monolith had endured.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
