DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He’d forgotten; it had sat on his tongue so fluidly, so indulgently, that he hadn’t even thought about the implications of her resurrection – just the motions of the hot springs, and all the memories it could bring, instead of shatter. A very quiet, muffled sigh warred its way through his lungs, and he was instantly straighter, more unyielding, more rigid, through the columns of his spine. “I apologize.” It’d been thoughtless, and he’d always tried to be very careful with all the properties of his words.
The lantern lights flickered on, and he drew his gaze back towards the sky, and then down, towards the ramparts of stones and streets – finding a bench nearby, and needing no other reason to wander, opted to sit upon it, Belial bounding forward and laying at his feet. “Not well,” and he smirked a little, leaning back against the railing, considering, contemplating, every inch the picture of an inquiring monolith. “Very whiny. Attempted to justify his actions.” A shrug undulated through, because at some point one could hope lessons would stick; Deimos remained very uncertain about any of it really mattering in the end. Sunjata was selfish, and would go along with his capricious impulses and greedy whims until something truly hit him in the face.
The lantern lights flickered on, and he drew his gaze back towards the sky, and then down, towards the ramparts of stones and streets – finding a bench nearby, and needing no other reason to wander, opted to sit upon it, Belial bounding forward and laying at his feet. “Not well,” and he smirked a little, leaning back against the railing, considering, contemplating, every inch the picture of an inquiring monolith. “Very whiny. Attempted to justify his actions.” A shrug undulated through, because at some point one could hope lessons would stick; Deimos remained very uncertain about any of it really mattering in the end. Sunjata was selfish, and would go along with his capricious impulses and greedy whims until something truly hit him in the face.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
