DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The indication that Morgan wasn’t amused, or intending to keep up with the ruse made the smile fall away, into some residual, perpetual frown, then drawn altogether back into his impassive emblems. Resigned to some fate, he quieted and stilled entirely, gaze not settling on the Warden, but all other aspects nearby; the floating orbs, the distinct ghosts, the wraiths, phantoms, and disasters coiling through the air. Maybe they’d come for blood too. Maybe they just enjoyed haunting him. Maybe he was supposed to be seeing something other than those distinct nightmares, staring him right in the face.
Always there. Always present. Always just in the corner of his eyes, in the depths of his haze. If he stopped moving, they’d catch him.
Remind him. Destroy him.
While she shuffled through her supplies, he thought about sidling away. Running. Rampaging. Restlessly toiling down the streets until they couldn’t find him. Until he could face them again. Until, until, until –
Distracted by his delirious plotting, he hadn’t noticed her pulling out the alcohol, the pad, until it was already there, his chin lifted. Morgan would likely notice his head pulsed, pervaded, with fever; heat exuding, molten and infernal.
A stinging notion didn’t bother him. He’d suffered far worse fates. “Yes.” Then his stare lowered, briefly, ashamed, fingers still toying on the waterskin, when a familiar snort echoed from around cobblestones. One glance told him Zuriel wasn’t happy, and no amount of effort could be made to look small, insignificant, and sheepish within the space on the bench. Trapped.
Always there. Always present. Always just in the corner of his eyes, in the depths of his haze. If he stopped moving, they’d catch him.
Remind him. Destroy him.
While she shuffled through her supplies, he thought about sidling away. Running. Rampaging. Restlessly toiling down the streets until they couldn’t find him. Until he could face them again. Until, until, until –
Distracted by his delirious plotting, he hadn’t noticed her pulling out the alcohol, the pad, until it was already there, his chin lifted. Morgan would likely notice his head pulsed, pervaded, with fever; heat exuding, molten and infernal.
A stinging notion didn’t bother him. He’d suffered far worse fates. “Yes.” Then his stare lowered, briefly, ashamed, fingers still toying on the waterskin, when a familiar snort echoed from around cobblestones. One glance told him Zuriel wasn’t happy, and no amount of effort could be made to look small, insignificant, and sheepish within the space on the bench. Trapped.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
