DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
More used to the arts of Zuriel’s infinite and instant mending, where stitches and seams came back together with a touch of her horn, he could only blink at the notions of the herbs and leaves again. The shaman would know far more than he, ignorant to concoctions and assuaging properties in the natural state of the world, so he could only nod, and bite back on the offer of sending Belial after the unicorn. Instead, his eyes went to the collective threshold of where she’d likely stay – reminded of days of exile, in a day not so different from this one, narrowing them briefly in silent speculation, but ultimately keeping all the other notions to himself.
It was a parting due anyway, back to civilization, where he’d offer the gore crows to the butchers and they’d share them amongst the Halovian citizens, and protect, guard, and ensure their shields were drawn for another day. Her tones brought him briefly away from the thoughts of the near future, piercing gaze swinging to her stance, to the way she seemed eager to slide and slip away.
Debts. The Sword nearly snorted. How many owed him some and they'd never been collected?
“You are welcome,” was a rumble over the ice instead. “Good luck.” He gave a wave, before picking up the rope once more, intending to drag the sled in this form the rest of the way. Belial offered a chirrup of farewell too, though with a far more Cheshire inkling to the tilt of his deer features. From there, they could walk into the Citadel’s intervals, beckoned by other duties and responsibilities to the world around them.
{FIN}
It was a parting due anyway, back to civilization, where he’d offer the gore crows to the butchers and they’d share them amongst the Halovian citizens, and protect, guard, and ensure their shields were drawn for another day. Her tones brought him briefly away from the thoughts of the near future, piercing gaze swinging to her stance, to the way she seemed eager to slide and slip away.
Debts. The Sword nearly snorted. How many owed him some and they'd never been collected?
“You are welcome,” was a rumble over the ice instead. “Good luck.” He gave a wave, before picking up the rope once more, intending to drag the sled in this form the rest of the way. Belial offered a chirrup of farewell too, though with a far more Cheshire inkling to the tilt of his deer features. From there, they could walk into the Citadel’s intervals, beckoned by other duties and responsibilities to the world around them.
{FIN}
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
