DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He nodded at her acceptance, configuring when he’d be available for wandering through portals in his head, preferably after honeymoons, and perhaps Morgan would have ample opportunity to build up her supplies, as noted, before then. While she mused, he stepped forward and away from the catapult, magic contorting along the grass and plains, snagging at the fallen rocks, and maneuvering them into a pile, while he tended to the fallen targets and dummies.
The General didn’t expect the next inquiry – mainly because no one had ever really voiced it towards him. He’d been a decidedly neutral individual on the topic years ago – because this hadn’t been his world, and he’d been frequently reminded as an Outlander that his opinions had hardly mattered. He hadn’t been locked inside a bubble for hundreds of years. He’d only been pulled by the Voice, soul lodged and tugged into these void, and was a standing figure to watch the borders, the snares, the lodging come toppling down. So he thought, the introspection deep, and configured he was still unaligned on the front. “It is difficult to say.” A shrug, pondering the weight of everything enameled in those inquiries. “I was brought here without a choice.” Outlander: and now he had nothing to return to – and he’d been a shell, a vessel, a wandering, wayfaring soul. “I could not imagine being trapped in one land.” Restless for so long, caught in between hordes and tethers, lines of the unknown. “With the portals, came opportunity.” For good, or maligned contortions; either spreading like wildfire, or a slow trickle of disaster.
Then the Sword arched a brow, considering, tugging the goals and bullseyes back to where they should remain for the next several hours, unless someone yearned to train after them. “And what is a Natural’s opinion?” Someone outside of the Grounds, with all of them descending upon their world?
Her final question caused the briefest of snorts, arms crossing over his chest. “I never underestimate anyone.” Because it led to stupidity, to delved ignorance, to an arrogance eventually gutted and consumed. Maybe the realms would burn again, lost in the endless cycle of war, damned and doomed to repeat itself. Maybe the Ascended were gaining in power, maybe there’d be more surprises, more quandaries. “Which is why we prepare.” Why he’d already thought of a weapon to assist if worst came to worst.
The General didn’t expect the next inquiry – mainly because no one had ever really voiced it towards him. He’d been a decidedly neutral individual on the topic years ago – because this hadn’t been his world, and he’d been frequently reminded as an Outlander that his opinions had hardly mattered. He hadn’t been locked inside a bubble for hundreds of years. He’d only been pulled by the Voice, soul lodged and tugged into these void, and was a standing figure to watch the borders, the snares, the lodging come toppling down. So he thought, the introspection deep, and configured he was still unaligned on the front. “It is difficult to say.” A shrug, pondering the weight of everything enameled in those inquiries. “I was brought here without a choice.” Outlander: and now he had nothing to return to – and he’d been a shell, a vessel, a wandering, wayfaring soul. “I could not imagine being trapped in one land.” Restless for so long, caught in between hordes and tethers, lines of the unknown. “With the portals, came opportunity.” For good, or maligned contortions; either spreading like wildfire, or a slow trickle of disaster.
Then the Sword arched a brow, considering, tugging the goals and bullseyes back to where they should remain for the next several hours, unless someone yearned to train after them. “And what is a Natural’s opinion?” Someone outside of the Grounds, with all of them descending upon their world?
Her final question caused the briefest of snorts, arms crossing over his chest. “I never underestimate anyone.” Because it led to stupidity, to delved ignorance, to an arrogance eventually gutted and consumed. Maybe the realms would burn again, lost in the endless cycle of war, damned and doomed to repeat itself. Maybe the Ascended were gaining in power, maybe there’d be more surprises, more quandaries. “Which is why we prepare.” Why he’d already thought of a weapon to assist if worst came to worst.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
