DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A nod indicating his understanding of political matters, diplomacies, and everything else associated with it followed her remark, as he inspected the measures of his catapult. Pulling off the sheet meant to protect it from elements, monsters, and anything else lurking, his meticulous measures followed traces of lines and framework. Scrupulous predilections only flickered away at Morgan’s mentioning of Neron and his unfortunate cataclysm with the Eirachi; anger at Ascensions (much like Rexanna had done – to get out from under Zariah’s claws?). The pattern of evasion and escape all pinpointed towards the Merciless – who had, apparently, since disappeared.
Which she’d done before, stretching out her talons in the Grounds’ streets one day, and then gone the next.
Only to reappear in Halo, seasons later.
The Sword clenched his jaw, a schism of machinations working through his skull at the notions. “She is skilled at hiding, and finding a place for herself.” Deimos wouldn’t put it past her to have already traversed to some new land – sinking her might and menace into terrains and territories. Her lack of a presence was a grand thing in theory; a lifting of tension and venom, an intense relief, but one would have to wonder if she’d discovered another foothold along the way.
Inspection of the catapult complete, he dragged it out further, intending to retest its mettle, and fix anything not harpooning or assaulting to the best of its ability. Might as well rampage against the targets he’d already set up – something else to do other than think about damnation and its doubts. The Warden picked at the psychological aspects of demonic figures though, and the heathen strangled a sigh he’d been holding. “They assume the identity of your friends, family, and loved ones, to try to lure you out.” To death, to desecration, to ruin, to wreak havoc inside and outside. He went silent, not describing how well he knew about the horrors and terrors, the carving of soulless attributes in his skull.
Which she’d done before, stretching out her talons in the Grounds’ streets one day, and then gone the next.
Only to reappear in Halo, seasons later.
The Sword clenched his jaw, a schism of machinations working through his skull at the notions. “She is skilled at hiding, and finding a place for herself.” Deimos wouldn’t put it past her to have already traversed to some new land – sinking her might and menace into terrains and territories. Her lack of a presence was a grand thing in theory; a lifting of tension and venom, an intense relief, but one would have to wonder if she’d discovered another foothold along the way.
Inspection of the catapult complete, he dragged it out further, intending to retest its mettle, and fix anything not harpooning or assaulting to the best of its ability. Might as well rampage against the targets he’d already set up – something else to do other than think about damnation and its doubts. The Warden picked at the psychological aspects of demonic figures though, and the heathen strangled a sigh he’d been holding. “They assume the identity of your friends, family, and loved ones, to try to lure you out.” To death, to desecration, to ruin, to wreak havoc inside and outside. He went silent, not describing how well he knew about the horrors and terrors, the carving of soulless attributes in his skull.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
