DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
After, after, after seemed to be a never-ending cycle of moments stretched and instantaneous all at once. Between sharing news, search parties, eventual votes, and everything else combined, there came to be some fragile instances where all Deimos wanted to do was survey the land. Sit on the Citadel wall. Wander in and amongst the streets and eaves once more. Stick his face into the wind and have the harsh, icy wake scatter back. Stare out across the mountains and cherish them for what they were worth.
But the first notions, aside from meetings in the Citadel, were to march over to the barracks. He could hear the whispers of passersby the moment he showed his figure out along the roads; for better or worse, and long strides made their way without any inclination of stopping. Opening the door, to reveal his old office, the hearth, the maps, the desk, the table, all relatively untouched – save by dust and debris, pooled into a strange sort of emotion into him. He wouldn’t bother naming it.
Then he swept along into the training grounds itself – blinking back something as he glanced at soldiers still there, granting them a brief nod, staring over the climbing wall that remained in existence. Maybe it was relief. Maybe they were echoes of a time gone, and striving to get back.
There were other things he could’ve been doing, but for now, it felt right to place his furs aside, grab hold of a nearby blade, and begin.
A swing of a sword, the rally of a weapon, built into a fury of melees and triumph, of disaster and ruin, pummeled directly into a nearby target.
But the first notions, aside from meetings in the Citadel, were to march over to the barracks. He could hear the whispers of passersby the moment he showed his figure out along the roads; for better or worse, and long strides made their way without any inclination of stopping. Opening the door, to reveal his old office, the hearth, the maps, the desk, the table, all relatively untouched – save by dust and debris, pooled into a strange sort of emotion into him. He wouldn’t bother naming it.
Then he swept along into the training grounds itself – blinking back something as he glanced at soldiers still there, granting them a brief nod, staring over the climbing wall that remained in existence. Maybe it was relief. Maybe they were echoes of a time gone, and striving to get back.
There were other things he could’ve been doing, but for now, it felt right to place his furs aside, grab hold of a nearby blade, and begin.
A swing of a sword, the rally of a weapon, built into a fury of melees and triumph, of disaster and ruin, pummeled directly into a nearby target.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
