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 held no expectations for what materialized from Death itself. In other worlds, he’d hastened individuals off to meet their makers, to clamber around in the unknown, for being a threat to any of his own, for fighting the same battle as himself, but on an opposing side. Here, the realms were altered, claiming souls merely to rest, to gather and wait for loved ones to join; and he still didn’t know what to make of it. Not when he hadn’t beheld repose, in either life or death, in so long.
And then another stepped from the woods, and he only arched a brow, not granting, not giving, the eldritch insinuations, the enigmatic, eerie quandaries a second thought. The puncturing weight of his gaze flickered over her, and the cat (to which Zuriel gave a soft snort in reply), measuring and comprehending, scrutinizing in between leaves and silence. Where and how to best proceed was another bizarre conjecture, and so he proceeded as he’d been taught, as he normally would, embedded into his skull since he was a boy. “I am Deimos,” and he extended a calloused hand, where blades, knives, bows, and daggers had found their own nuances, cut their own lines into scars and brutality. “Thank you for seeing me.” A pause, segmenting, collecting, before proceeding. “I spoke to Ludo about my interest in assisting with freeing Ascended souls. It said you had information.”
And then another stepped from the woods, and he only arched a brow, not granting, not giving, the eldritch insinuations, the enigmatic, eerie quandaries a second thought. The puncturing weight of his gaze flickered over her, and the cat (to which Zuriel gave a soft snort in reply), measuring and comprehending, scrutinizing in between leaves and silence. Where and how to best proceed was another bizarre conjecture, and so he proceeded as he’d been taught, as he normally would, embedded into his skull since he was a boy. “I am Deimos,” and he extended a calloused hand, where blades, knives, bows, and daggers had found their own nuances, cut their own lines into scars and brutality. “Thank you for seeing me.” A pause, segmenting, collecting, before proceeding. “I spoke to Ludo about my interest in assisting with freeing Ascended souls. It said you had information.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
