DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Today he was following wraiths.
They wafted around in elemental threads, and like a cat he was drawn to their ethers, floating before his eyes and dragging him out of the darkness. He thought he recognized some, fellow warriors from a time long, long ago. If he could catch them, maybe he could talk to them, hear them again, see if they were well and truly dead. If he was too, and had just never known it.
His head was raised as he turned the corner, and didn’t bother glancing around at the people scattered nearby. A call resounded from behind, and he whipped around – wasn’t he the General? – and promptly bashed his cranium off the side of the building. It could’ve been the distraction. It could’ve been the vertigo.
A low rumble, maybe a growl, stirred in his chest. The pain ricocheted and bounded, and he lifted his hand instinctually, blinking rather baffled, bewildered, and stupefied as his fingers came away already soaked in blood.
A shrug resumed, as the ichor ran rampant down the side of his face, and then his piercing, off-in-the-clouds gaze rendered back to someone he recognized. “Warden.” His eyes lifted, skirting along the air around her. “You have ghosts around you.”
They wafted around in elemental threads, and like a cat he was drawn to their ethers, floating before his eyes and dragging him out of the darkness. He thought he recognized some, fellow warriors from a time long, long ago. If he could catch them, maybe he could talk to them, hear them again, see if they were well and truly dead. If he was too, and had just never known it.
His head was raised as he turned the corner, and didn’t bother glancing around at the people scattered nearby. A call resounded from behind, and he whipped around – wasn’t he the General? – and promptly bashed his cranium off the side of the building. It could’ve been the distraction. It could’ve been the vertigo.
A low rumble, maybe a growl, stirred in his chest. The pain ricocheted and bounded, and he lifted his hand instinctually, blinking rather baffled, bewildered, and stupefied as his fingers came away already soaked in blood.
A shrug resumed, as the ichor ran rampant down the side of his face, and then his piercing, off-in-the-clouds gaze rendered back to someone he recognized. “Warden.” His eyes lifted, skirting along the air around her. “You have ghosts around you.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
