DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The barest sentiment of mischief reverberated through his features – not worn in what felt like centuries when it’d merely been days and weeks – at her agreement. The telltale grin almost immediately vanquished from her own told him just was what necessary, and perhaps it’d be a moment to shed the overbearing grief and capacity of LongNight’s menace. Seasons before, he’d done the very same thing with Jigano, creating, contorting, messing around with the contraption as rocks sailed and weapons (or flower crowns, as demonstrated at Fiat Lux) waged upon the fields, and now even the Loreseeker was gone, traversing to different lands.
Everything altered, skewed, impacted, in some greater shape or form.
He maneuvered away from the assembled targets and over to the catapult. “You place items here.” Various artifacts, whatever means necessary in times of war and skirmishes (the monolith was partial to some fiery emblems when the time was right), his hand ghosting over the open container. For now, his machinations and incantations brought forth stones of various sizes, dropping in, echoing against the wood, sliding amongst one another. “Aim.” The Sword shifted it ever so slightly, perhaps the only cumbersome thing about the machine, intending to knock out a few of the painted adversaries yards upon yards away. “Pull.” He slid his palm over the lever, following through on his own directions, and watched as the arm flew and then ceased abruptly – poised just as it had been before, the rocks sailing through the air, and demolishing the fake enemy. The devilish smirk lingered for a little while longer, before it too dissipated, and he reached for the arm, tugging it back down, nodding for her to try.
The discussion about monsters brought him back to the present, gaze nestled on the horizon. Wandering demons through portals had been discussed before – the uncertainty layered over them again, understanding Morgan’s concern. No one else would want the certain level of hell that transpired here to go anywhere near their kingdoms. “Worth pondering.” Because he didn’t have the right answer, and given his past predilections and attempts, had no intention of laying out false hopes. “One would think if they had not this year, they would not in the future. Depends on their cunning.” Or if they could be rid of, destroyed, before it could occur – another set of calculations prospering across his brow. He had no intention of giving too much away, especially when it was currently just a Hollowed Grounds issue. “It is likely wise to keep blocking portals.” So the cretins couldn’t have the ability to crawl their way in – but the unknown was too vast, and everything shifted abruptly. “They are supposedly old Ascendeds from the Voice.” Left to rot, fester, decay, and maul within the bubble, before borders were torn down, before worlds were released.
Everything altered, skewed, impacted, in some greater shape or form.
He maneuvered away from the assembled targets and over to the catapult. “You place items here.” Various artifacts, whatever means necessary in times of war and skirmishes (the monolith was partial to some fiery emblems when the time was right), his hand ghosting over the open container. For now, his machinations and incantations brought forth stones of various sizes, dropping in, echoing against the wood, sliding amongst one another. “Aim.” The Sword shifted it ever so slightly, perhaps the only cumbersome thing about the machine, intending to knock out a few of the painted adversaries yards upon yards away. “Pull.” He slid his palm over the lever, following through on his own directions, and watched as the arm flew and then ceased abruptly – poised just as it had been before, the rocks sailing through the air, and demolishing the fake enemy. The devilish smirk lingered for a little while longer, before it too dissipated, and he reached for the arm, tugging it back down, nodding for her to try.
The discussion about monsters brought him back to the present, gaze nestled on the horizon. Wandering demons through portals had been discussed before – the uncertainty layered over them again, understanding Morgan’s concern. No one else would want the certain level of hell that transpired here to go anywhere near their kingdoms. “Worth pondering.” Because he didn’t have the right answer, and given his past predilections and attempts, had no intention of laying out false hopes. “One would think if they had not this year, they would not in the future. Depends on their cunning.” Or if they could be rid of, destroyed, before it could occur – another set of calculations prospering across his brow. He had no intention of giving too much away, especially when it was currently just a Hollowed Grounds issue. “It is likely wise to keep blocking portals.” So the cretins couldn’t have the ability to crawl their way in – but the unknown was too vast, and everything shifted abruptly. “They are supposedly old Ascendeds from the Voice.” Left to rot, fester, decay, and maul within the bubble, before borders were torn down, before worlds were released.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
