DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword took the nod for understanding, comprehension of the situation, of the way LongNight had a particular way of twisting everything around. Of torture. Of devastation. Of reminding them they were merely mortal, and the monsters knew how to prey upon their minds. His eyes lifted to the walls, to things hung with care for décor, for ramparts and ramifications she wouldn’t be seeing any longer. He spoke to them as much as Chulane, a heavy sigh wrapped around his chest as his mind pierced over his upcoming statement, the modicum of thought. “I have considered going to Ludo when it gets closer to Deepfrost.” He hadn’t wanted to do this again – to suffer in the blinding torture for a fourth time, not when there were other options. Other worlds. There was the press of demonic traces where the Ascended were concerned too – if they were going to march into battle their brethren, or if the rest of them would be left to it. “To ask if I can complete her quest.” For Ru’in’s soul. So she wouldn’t be alone.
The beast waited for a reaction, and failed to presume the one orchestrated thereafter. Beneath the weight in his ribs, in his shoulders, he understood – Chulane likely felt alone too, adrift, uncertain, one of the first damned moments here, and it bled and it scorched and it burned. Deimos had assumed he’d be welcoming the man into the family at some point; just not quite like this – his eyes widened briefly, before returning to their impassive, grieving wake, a muffled snort churning through his nares. “Thank you.” You might regret it coiled through him, pondering if he was a beacon for this wealth of loss and misfortune, or if it was just biding its time until it wrapped around his throat. “It is draining.” Loss after loss, season after season, the once, solid fortifications falling, crumbling, down around him. “But we will survive.” Whether or not as empty, broken vessels, or another recovering force, was yet to be determined.
The beast waited for a reaction, and failed to presume the one orchestrated thereafter. Beneath the weight in his ribs, in his shoulders, he understood – Chulane likely felt alone too, adrift, uncertain, one of the first damned moments here, and it bled and it scorched and it burned. Deimos had assumed he’d be welcoming the man into the family at some point; just not quite like this – his eyes widened briefly, before returning to their impassive, grieving wake, a muffled snort churning through his nares. “Thank you.” You might regret it coiled through him, pondering if he was a beacon for this wealth of loss and misfortune, or if it was just biding its time until it wrapped around his throat. “It is draining.” Loss after loss, season after season, the once, solid fortifications falling, crumbling, down around him. “But we will survive.” Whether or not as empty, broken vessels, or another recovering force, was yet to be determined.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
