DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Anticipating some impact of hers, the quick succession and rounding of eldritch entanglements gave him the slightest pause – for while a majority of his were tangible elements, strung together in pronounced manifestations (the scorching of a flame, the howl of the wind, the cascades of water, the maneuvering soil, the gilded bindings of creation), the ones he knew best had never made their appearance known. Just in the idle whisper and slink of their movement from his form and bombarding upon walls, just in the ripple of undulating lethality. So the Sword found himself watching, with the slightest arch to his brow, as the shadows reverberated from her scars, piercing and deadly, tightening over an avian neck, before sending it scattering downward.
Maybe with the ghost of a smile, the amused snort of another musing.
He did well not to laugh when the bird didn’t completely meet its demise; no judgement lingering in his gaze, before moving onward, intending to pat Belial for a job well executed, when the final gore crow made its move. Clever and dastardly, even though its kin had already perished, it clearly had a mauling intended, and he could only flicker after its quick and righteous fury when it landed, sunk, into Chaele’s arm.
A sigh unwound from his chest as he sent another wave of the same incantations, in rapt precision, towards the beast – a quick and sudden death, then nothing more, presuming Chaele could pluck the damned cretin out of her flesh. Deimos jutted his jaw forward towards her, a rumble following. “All right?” Belial made some vague chirp, but it was muffled by the creature in his mouth, and the excitement bounding through his hooves, fangs digging in further. For a moment the General was vexed he’d let Zuriel stay behind, for whatever wound that crept and crawled would’ve been easily rendered and mended.
Instead, he began to open his bag to search for bandages, the inquiry motioning across his mouth in vague curiosity. “Life drain?”
Maybe with the ghost of a smile, the amused snort of another musing.
He did well not to laugh when the bird didn’t completely meet its demise; no judgement lingering in his gaze, before moving onward, intending to pat Belial for a job well executed, when the final gore crow made its move. Clever and dastardly, even though its kin had already perished, it clearly had a mauling intended, and he could only flicker after its quick and righteous fury when it landed, sunk, into Chaele’s arm.
A sigh unwound from his chest as he sent another wave of the same incantations, in rapt precision, towards the beast – a quick and sudden death, then nothing more, presuming Chaele could pluck the damned cretin out of her flesh. Deimos jutted his jaw forward towards her, a rumble following. “All right?” Belial made some vague chirp, but it was muffled by the creature in his mouth, and the excitement bounding through his hooves, fangs digging in further. For a moment the General was vexed he’d let Zuriel stay behind, for whatever wound that crept and crawled would’ve been easily rendered and mended.
Instead, he began to open his bag to search for bandages, the inquiry motioning across his mouth in vague curiosity. “Life drain?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
