DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Portals and walks, preparations and nuances, information and a press of the unknown down the edges, the columns, of his spine, led him into the thicket of the Fae woods. A thousand speculations hovered along the back of his mind, piercing and unwinding, until he could fathom no more, and they ran into deeper subsets – pondering over the nature of Ascended souls, and the freedom, the liberation, of their quandaries. In all transparency, only Rexanna’s concerned him, but if they could get one, they should’ve been able to snag all, and so perhaps most of them could come by happenstance. The how, the where, the when, and other questions were unadorned figments, rampaging along a Machiavellian skull that had no answers into their formulations. Much like everything else nowadays.
He navigated the eerie, enigmatic timber as he so often did; with caution, with vigilance, with predilection, not wanting to be caught unawares in its sanction. Tricky, labyrinthine, and laden with spirits, with orbs, with ghosts, he could feel the vestiges of spirits rising as he walked, as he tred further, as Zuriel’s footfalls traced behind his, as dimensions and denizens gave no heed to a common man. The sound of rain might’ve ricocheted against his ear drums, and he ignored it as best he could; choosing to not be haunted at this hour. Not when there were too many other things to do. “I am looking for Delphia,” he spoke to the forest, to the leaves, to the eaves, to the world that always seemed to be listening; to the webs and traces of otherworldly factions he’d never quite understand.
He navigated the eerie, enigmatic timber as he so often did; with caution, with vigilance, with predilection, not wanting to be caught unawares in its sanction. Tricky, labyrinthine, and laden with spirits, with orbs, with ghosts, he could feel the vestiges of spirits rising as he walked, as he tred further, as Zuriel’s footfalls traced behind his, as dimensions and denizens gave no heed to a common man. The sound of rain might’ve ricocheted against his ear drums, and he ignored it as best he could; choosing to not be haunted at this hour. Not when there were too many other things to do. “I am looking for Delphia,” he spoke to the forest, to the leaves, to the eaves, to the world that always seemed to be listening; to the webs and traces of otherworldly factions he’d never quite understand.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
