DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The singular response was enough for the feral depths of his grin to manifest; very boyish and juvenile in its dominion. No shame in the incantations worn beneath skin and flesh and bone, no mortification in the way it pulsed and beat a steady drum in his heart. Never had been. Never would be.
The images Belial volleyed and returned, complete with a subtle chirp of entangled, nefarious enthusiasm, were enough to confirm the suspicions. He nodded, indicating he was moving forward, and then the cry came up - meat festering its way down the walls, clattering on hinges and acrimonious enticement. A soft sigh filtered through his lungs, perhaps some primal acceptance of the inevitable, or the quick arc of restlessness coiling into marrow; calling his own enchantments to arms. “Be prepared,” by way of warning, before he stepped around the bend, and caught sight of the flock.
There were about five or six, moving about after some fresh kill – chanting and taunting, beaks prying away their promised bloodshed, swallowing the raw portions whole. Maybe they’d be distracted enough to get enough hits in – understanding well that he’d likely be both assault and defense on this particular collision course. With one more nod granted to the masked being, he permitted Belial to unleash his formidable stance.
With great aplomb – the shadowy figure hastened from his darker folds and immediately sank his teeth into the closest bird he could snatch. There was a great uproar and fury amongst the avians, all immediately cawing and flying upward, before Deimos sent a ricochet of his own devastation and ruin. The magic unfurled and uncoiled amongst intangible lines and webs, but cast a tremendous power that rallied against three of them in quick succession, falling, falling, falling like stones.
The images Belial volleyed and returned, complete with a subtle chirp of entangled, nefarious enthusiasm, were enough to confirm the suspicions. He nodded, indicating he was moving forward, and then the cry came up - meat festering its way down the walls, clattering on hinges and acrimonious enticement. A soft sigh filtered through his lungs, perhaps some primal acceptance of the inevitable, or the quick arc of restlessness coiling into marrow; calling his own enchantments to arms. “Be prepared,” by way of warning, before he stepped around the bend, and caught sight of the flock.
There were about five or six, moving about after some fresh kill – chanting and taunting, beaks prying away their promised bloodshed, swallowing the raw portions whole. Maybe they’d be distracted enough to get enough hits in – understanding well that he’d likely be both assault and defense on this particular collision course. With one more nod granted to the masked being, he permitted Belial to unleash his formidable stance.
With great aplomb – the shadowy figure hastened from his darker folds and immediately sank his teeth into the closest bird he could snatch. There was a great uproar and fury amongst the avians, all immediately cawing and flying upward, before Deimos sent a ricochet of his own devastation and ruin. The magic unfurled and uncoiled amongst intangible lines and webs, but cast a tremendous power that rallied against three of them in quick succession, falling, falling, falling like stones.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
