DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Diligence persisted and remained; trainings completed around the circuit of the Citadel in rampaging strides and reticent marches, ensuring recruits and himself were adequately poised for whatever the world was eager to churn next. And then, thereafter, when they dispersed, so did he, traversing and traveling across the canvas of white on hellhound limbs and blistering speed – alive and whole and renewed in the stark contrast of chilling ferocity.
Curiosity invoked far too often and he indulged it now too, lingering upon the threshold of the Climb – peeling away furs and pelts once he’d shifted, tucking them along his bag of holding, reserved for returns to mountainsides. For now, he could roll up the sleeves of his tunic, regard the warmth, heat, and sanctity for other things – blending and turning down ramparts of the world he’d yet to fully explore.
Belial coasted alongside with residual silence – save for the flurry of wings on a proper ascent – but the peryton broke his quietude when another was spotted ahead – letting out a greeting that resounded in an eager chirp. The Sword arched his brow at the individual nearby – completely foreign to him (and masked, with a skull, some likes of aesthetics he hadn’t seen since Helovia) – crouched along lava.
A lithe little flame and flare extended again, and he nearly laughed, familiar with that creature. “I would not bother hunting them,” he noted by way of his own acknowledgments, nodding his head, and ushering the companion closer to his side.
Curiosity invoked far too often and he indulged it now too, lingering upon the threshold of the Climb – peeling away furs and pelts once he’d shifted, tucking them along his bag of holding, reserved for returns to mountainsides. For now, he could roll up the sleeves of his tunic, regard the warmth, heat, and sanctity for other things – blending and turning down ramparts of the world he’d yet to fully explore.
Belial coasted alongside with residual silence – save for the flurry of wings on a proper ascent – but the peryton broke his quietude when another was spotted ahead – letting out a greeting that resounded in an eager chirp. The Sword arched his brow at the individual nearby – completely foreign to him (and masked, with a skull, some likes of aesthetics he hadn’t seen since Helovia) – crouched along lava.
A lithe little flame and flare extended again, and he nearly laughed, familiar with that creature. “I would not bother hunting them,” he noted by way of his own acknowledgments, nodding his head, and ushering the companion closer to his side.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
