DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He snorted at the answer – satisfactory enough for the moment, but not without a dig thrown in. “Does it ever work out the way it was intended?” Especially in situations like this, or anything involving the Flood.
Rolling his eyes, he finally motioned into something more than a predacious statue, tucking away his parchment into deep pockets, sipping at the dregs of remaining hot chocolate perched upon the rock. Eventually that too was diminished, and he sighed, bothered he had to help this individual at all. Something like yearning to aid others without assisting him made the whole thing much more cumbersome, and in the end, he simply furrowed his brow and ensured his thoughts on the matter were clear.
The object crafted between his upraised hands and palms was simple: Sunjata would receive nothing orchestrated, detailed, or ornamental, as Deimos would’ve done for many others. Instead, there was a brief, gruff message carved at the bottom, which the Flood likely wouldn’t see until much long after, as the fire pot came into fruition and being. Created and contorted for a purpose, and not much more. “There,” he hastened, which was probably the only warning he’d grant before hurling it in Sunjata’s direction.
Maybe it’d hit him in the head.
Rolling his eyes, he finally motioned into something more than a predacious statue, tucking away his parchment into deep pockets, sipping at the dregs of remaining hot chocolate perched upon the rock. Eventually that too was diminished, and he sighed, bothered he had to help this individual at all. Something like yearning to aid others without assisting him made the whole thing much more cumbersome, and in the end, he simply furrowed his brow and ensured his thoughts on the matter were clear.
The object crafted between his upraised hands and palms was simple: Sunjata would receive nothing orchestrated, detailed, or ornamental, as Deimos would’ve done for many others. Instead, there was a brief, gruff message carved at the bottom, which the Flood likely wouldn’t see until much long after, as the fire pot came into fruition and being. Created and contorted for a purpose, and not much more. “There,” he hastened, which was probably the only warning he’d grant before hurling it in Sunjata’s direction.
Maybe it’d hit him in the head.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
