DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The answer wasn’t an unexpected one; he’d been amongst those ready, immersed, into enchantments, invocations, and contortions from the very beginning. It was a rampant source in his blood, a beating, bleeding tempo and undulation of persistence, fortitude, strength, might, and fervor in its own regard; as much as the wielder, the desired outcomes eternally the same. “I have time,” came on the slightest etchings of a smile, a pulse of destruction and desecration. The familiar spread of the insurrections flared to life in his soul, and he could’ve plucked any of the strings, any of the strands, any of the threads, bid them to sweep along the grounds, to engage and eradicate, to destroy and demolish.
But this was training, practice, means to an end, to see how far they could push and pull, to understand weaknesses, flaws, defects, and inadequacies, to draw the line in ability.
The Sword drifted away, feet not bothering to whisk away the newly fallen snow. Their conjuring capabilities would likely find the powder, rime, and ice a suitable victim. He placed himself some distance and yards away from the Sage, not bothering to spread out his palms in front of him – contorting and controlling via mind, via concentration. “I meant to tell you,” an afterthought, while Jigano was sorting himself out, preparing for the incoming siege. “My creation magic seems to have returned.” To full strength, and he wasn’t certain what to make of it (the hows and whys muffled beforehand, and much the same now). He signified his uncertainty with a shrug of his shoulders, and then returned to the impending onslaught. “Your move.”
But this was training, practice, means to an end, to see how far they could push and pull, to understand weaknesses, flaws, defects, and inadequacies, to draw the line in ability.
The Sword drifted away, feet not bothering to whisk away the newly fallen snow. Their conjuring capabilities would likely find the powder, rime, and ice a suitable victim. He placed himself some distance and yards away from the Sage, not bothering to spread out his palms in front of him – contorting and controlling via mind, via concentration. “I meant to tell you,” an afterthought, while Jigano was sorting himself out, preparing for the incoming siege. “My creation magic seems to have returned.” To full strength, and he wasn’t certain what to make of it (the hows and whys muffled beforehand, and much the same now). He signified his uncertainty with a shrug of his shoulders, and then returned to the impending onslaught. “Your move.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
