DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos was usually content to see LongNight end; even if it hadn’t been a horrifying experience in a number of years, the terrors and trauma of its nightmare denizens never truly went away. A touch and a fragment of passing motions, of shadowy fixtures, were enough to summon the dreaded memories, and so by the time Flowerbirth sprung its wings, the Warden was more than content to stretch out of the restless confines and back into the sun’s warmth.
Though Halo always held its fixture of cold, something still seemed…off. Perhaps it was difficult to place amongst and amidst their portion of horizon, but by now they would usually have portions of mud from melted snow or periods where the built up powder slid off of roofs and into the pathways. As he walked, checking in on the masses of citizens he’d sworn to protect, none of those such things appeared. Maybe it was a slower waking for spring. Maybe it was something else.
He sighed and let that thought drift, beginning to wind his way towards the Barracks to ensure duties were taken care of – Belial flying above and unfurling his wings, loud hoots of obnoxious parallels, while Zuriel forged along beside him, silent and contemplative, mirror images of one another as they took their normal trails towards training and instruction.
Though Halo always held its fixture of cold, something still seemed…off. Perhaps it was difficult to place amongst and amidst their portion of horizon, but by now they would usually have portions of mud from melted snow or periods where the built up powder slid off of roofs and into the pathways. As he walked, checking in on the masses of citizens he’d sworn to protect, none of those such things appeared. Maybe it was a slower waking for spring. Maybe it was something else.
He sighed and let that thought drift, beginning to wind his way towards the Barracks to ensure duties were taken care of – Belial flying above and unfurling his wings, loud hoots of obnoxious parallels, while Zuriel forged along beside him, silent and contemplative, mirror images of one another as they took their normal trails towards training and instruction.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
