DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Conflict on the horizon – a brewing, brimming, foreboding aspect. For soldiers alike, who knew the weight of pending circumstances, who’d experienced chaos firsthand, who’d understood the small moments leading up to larger instances, it was an exercise amidst intuition and preparation. For what, and to the extent, he couldn’t be certain, but things kept colliding, kept escalating, and it felt like they’d done so very little in the management of defenses or recourse. “I have similar suspicions.” His piercing gaze went away from the horizon, and back to her, a nod following. How many times had it happened while he’d reigned, lifetimes ago? How many times had they marched into battle for soulless circumstances? How many times had he faced adversaries and opponents, for the sake of his land? And was it all damned and doomed to repeat? Would this world share the same fate?
After everything – why wouldn’t the Ascended plan or plot vengeance?
Because the Hollowed Grounds hadn’t, after blights? Or did they not have the numbers? Was there something else stopping them, or the biding of time aiding in the repercussions?
He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure anyone else did either. All they could do was suspect, guard, and start preventative measures. At her inquiry, he arched his brow, extending one hand to show the sudden display of embers, flames, emboldened, stretching upward, before he ceased them altogether upon closing his fist. “Heard the same.” Though he hadn’t witnessed it firsthand; Wessex had been capable of wielding his to an extent when the fiery luxere had rambled from Halo’s portal, and the Sword was moderately convinced something else had been at play. Then a sigh filtered and flickered through, eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the catapult, the grains of wood interlocking. “The door was a mistake.” And unfortunately, very effective in rendering an Ascended vanquished.
After everything – why wouldn’t the Ascended plan or plot vengeance?
Because the Hollowed Grounds hadn’t, after blights? Or did they not have the numbers? Was there something else stopping them, or the biding of time aiding in the repercussions?
He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure anyone else did either. All they could do was suspect, guard, and start preventative measures. At her inquiry, he arched his brow, extending one hand to show the sudden display of embers, flames, emboldened, stretching upward, before he ceased them altogether upon closing his fist. “Heard the same.” Though he hadn’t witnessed it firsthand; Wessex had been capable of wielding his to an extent when the fiery luxere had rambled from Halo’s portal, and the Sword was moderately convinced something else had been at play. Then a sigh filtered and flickered through, eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the catapult, the grains of wood interlocking. “The door was a mistake.” And unfortunately, very effective in rendering an Ascended vanquished.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
