not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
The monolith had been waiting, waiting, waiting, the entire time Kiada had been on her mission, protective intervals and marrow branching him off into either pacing by doors, windows, or meandering along the hearth, attempting to find opportunities of distraction. But they never lasted for long, and his mind would run rampant over possibilities and potential; either for a proud moment where Kiada had been victorious (a Pyrrhic tangibility – slaying the one she loved?), and then the other, more barbaric inclinations. Deimos chose not to sway deep into those, so it wouldn’t suffocate, stagnate, drown in his chest – the number of losses, the weight of despair, always striving, always struggling, to go beyond its scorching touch. Some days it was easy. The latter hadn’t been.
But then there were the howls, the screams, the pounding of the door, get Deimos; and had it been some siren song uttered by monsters he would’ve been shackled and tethered to the snares immediately, racing towards the threshold, hands on the door, opening without a semblance of hesitation. Zuriel marched over at his insistence too, hovering along the apertures, ready, willing, and able to utilize her efforts if necessary.
But then there were the howls, the screams, the pounding of the door, get Deimos; and had it been some siren song uttered by monsters he would’ve been shackled and tethered to the snares immediately, racing towards the threshold, hands on the door, opening without a semblance of hesitation. Zuriel marched over at his insistence too, hovering along the apertures, ready, willing, and able to utilize her efforts if necessary.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
