DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Ah well. Deimos could have snarked and spewed vitriol about Jigano for a lengthy while, petty, and very capable of holding a grudge; perhaps it was best not to let it flow unbidden. Instead, as he was eternally prone to do, the beast listened, tilting his head, placing the request, and the items, within the back of his mind for safekeeping, for honing in on later moments. A wishbone from one killed by his own hand, a claw from an Ursur, antlers from a luxere – capable things, although the Ursur would likely be the trickiest contortion to the condemnations. “Understood.” A firm nod, agreement to the unfurling webs, and the necessities to render the communication devices tangible. “I can.” A promise, a conviction, an assurance; formulations of habits and rituals. “Thank you for listening and providing information. I will return.” And with that, he could ease away, back into the ice and rime, a bob of his head in goodbye, returning to civilization, and rooted endeavors.
{FIN! Thank you! <3}
{FIN! Thank you! <3}
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
