DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A little dragon, not the layers of beasts lodged in Halo caves, and he could nearly sigh in relief at that. Another lure then, in a way, used to the tinier ones people had for companions, led astray, down into ruin and something unclear – and the General swallowed down another round of bile, another sweeping stretch of his lungs longing to exude something other than cold, stark terror. Nothing about the land, nothing about the storms, but a nuance, a notion, of more than teeth, of pulsing voids placed into veins.
A poison, maybe?
But he couldn’t ask him anymore; the man, this stranger only chasing after fat rabbits, rendered lost because the world was unjust and cruel. Zuriel laid her head on the farmer’s shoulder, and Deimos nodded, head hanging a little lower as he agreed. “Yes. I can.” The only things left to proffer were reassurance and another’s solid existence at his side, listening to the ragged breaths, the telltale echoes he’d heard through soldier’s last moments time and time before – and then the end. Pat at Dewdrop Farm. Kids. Loved. Lost their father because there was never enough time for innocence or justice.
He rose from the blood-soaked earth, and the unicorn followed suit, creating a shovel in his hand to grant the man a proper burial, and a little marker affixed upon the top. Someone else just gone.
Then they left, to tell Pat and their children, and to decide what to do about the latest information, threat to their world.
A poison, maybe?
But he couldn’t ask him anymore; the man, this stranger only chasing after fat rabbits, rendered lost because the world was unjust and cruel. Zuriel laid her head on the farmer’s shoulder, and Deimos nodded, head hanging a little lower as he agreed. “Yes. I can.” The only things left to proffer were reassurance and another’s solid existence at his side, listening to the ragged breaths, the telltale echoes he’d heard through soldier’s last moments time and time before – and then the end. Pat at Dewdrop Farm. Kids. Loved. Lost their father because there was never enough time for innocence or justice.
He rose from the blood-soaked earth, and the unicorn followed suit, creating a shovel in his hand to grant the man a proper burial, and a little marker affixed upon the top. Someone else just gone.
Then they left, to tell Pat and their children, and to decide what to do about the latest information, threat to their world.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
