DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
They waited. No release of a door. No creak of ancient things maneuvering. Nothing happened. Deimos narrowed his eyes, curiosity and some amount of frustration warring over attuned proportions and feelings. Their combined platitudes and intellect had sought out similar notions and factions, but clearly not enough.
Pausing and stepping forward, he examined the crude drawings again, the angles of the stick-figures, pondering over what they’d missed. Had they entered something incorrectly? Were their proportions not executed precisely? His gaze swept over proportions, back and forth, striving to take in anything they’d lapsed upon; furrowing brows, mind reeling and whirling. In true form, the Sword simply took a moment to think.
--
Deimos is using INT 1 to gain another hint/clue for the puzzle.
Pausing and stepping forward, he examined the crude drawings again, the angles of the stick-figures, pondering over what they’d missed. Had they entered something incorrectly? Were their proportions not executed precisely? His gaze swept over proportions, back and forth, striving to take in anything they’d lapsed upon; furrowing brows, mind reeling and whirling. In true form, the Sword simply took a moment to think.
--
Deimos is using INT 1 to gain another hint/clue for the puzzle.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
