DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
These were times where he would’ve sunk right into exhaustion, a mental wearing and breaking down of walls and feats, of structures built to tower rather than topple. It would’ve been an easy climb down, when they were already so perilously low after the last round of discussions with others, from the eyes that swept over him day after day, from the way consequences pummeled here. But even with his head down, stare scraping over the paper, there was no feral need to break and fall apart.
Driven by resolution, by resolve, by the need to see these things reshaped, renewed, his mind was a stinging nettle, awakening to everything parading by; the trials, the tribulations, the faults, the flaw lines, all the potential ways in which this can go heinously wrong. Deimos had nothing to say to Ru’s statement, naught more than a clench of his jaw and another sigh unwinding from his feral frame. Moments that could’ve be prevented – that’s where they seemed immersed within now.
But hopefully not for much longer.
The Sword watched as she took up the charcoal, made more lines and segments across the paper. He leaned forward, arms and elbows upon the table, to inspect the newest addition. A soft snort coiled through his nares, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “If they are willing,” he murmured, aware that their plight didn’t stretch to everyone, and that there would be a stark few willing to lend aid to this proportion of the cause. Not when it promised sedition and insurrection.
He took the instrument back, much like a child with a quick swipe of his fingers, grasping it firmly while he amended a few other things, adding chunks of earth and greenery to the outer limits, listening all the while. A shame he uttered mostly to himself, as if not wanting to admit it out loud. No need to set the Valkyrie on that particular course now, when they had so many others flailing around in the wings. “Three days,” he repeated, as if it were a very stupid vow, a low rumble from his chest. Three days; and then he could sound the alarms.
Driven by resolution, by resolve, by the need to see these things reshaped, renewed, his mind was a stinging nettle, awakening to everything parading by; the trials, the tribulations, the faults, the flaw lines, all the potential ways in which this can go heinously wrong. Deimos had nothing to say to Ru’s statement, naught more than a clench of his jaw and another sigh unwinding from his feral frame. Moments that could’ve be prevented – that’s where they seemed immersed within now.
But hopefully not for much longer.
The Sword watched as she took up the charcoal, made more lines and segments across the paper. He leaned forward, arms and elbows upon the table, to inspect the newest addition. A soft snort coiled through his nares, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “If they are willing,” he murmured, aware that their plight didn’t stretch to everyone, and that there would be a stark few willing to lend aid to this proportion of the cause. Not when it promised sedition and insurrection.
He took the instrument back, much like a child with a quick swipe of his fingers, grasping it firmly while he amended a few other things, adding chunks of earth and greenery to the outer limits, listening all the while. A shame he uttered mostly to himself, as if not wanting to admit it out loud. No need to set the Valkyrie on that particular course now, when they had so many others flailing around in the wings. “Three days,” he repeated, as if it were a very stupid vow, a low rumble from his chest. Three days; and then he could sound the alarms.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
