DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos watched – eternally the observer, bearing witness to the way the water formed and conjured against the Sage’s fire. He didn’t smirk, snicker, or laugh as Jigano was suitably soaked, never a being to satiate and sow contentment where there was so much more of the battle to come.
He didn’t feel or notice anything at first, no alterations, no blinding glimpses of obvious elements cast his way, until the earth began to shift beneath his feet. A quick glance below confirmed its movement and motion, and he could feel his balance alter; tipping him towards the left.
Instinctual, inherent strands, threads, and damnation alone drove at him – mind calculating, seething, and sensing something else entirely contained within now – and though he was puzzled, perplexed, and bewildered by it, he went to utilize the incantations just the same. A volley, a barrage, of his own stone, loam, and soil enchantments brooded beneath, attempting to right the pit forming below, to fill it once more.
Before, hadn’t he only been able to barely move rocks?
A machination formed again, ever apparent, ever ready in the stokings of his infernal mind, and he sought to lift stones out of the ground, out of the snow, out of the rubble and ruin, sending them towards Jigano.
He didn’t feel or notice anything at first, no alterations, no blinding glimpses of obvious elements cast his way, until the earth began to shift beneath his feet. A quick glance below confirmed its movement and motion, and he could feel his balance alter; tipping him towards the left.
Instinctual, inherent strands, threads, and damnation alone drove at him – mind calculating, seething, and sensing something else entirely contained within now – and though he was puzzled, perplexed, and bewildered by it, he went to utilize the incantations just the same. A volley, a barrage, of his own stone, loam, and soil enchantments brooded beneath, attempting to right the pit forming below, to fill it once more.
Before, hadn’t he only been able to barely move rocks?
A machination formed again, ever apparent, ever ready in the stokings of his infernal mind, and he sought to lift stones out of the ground, out of the snow, out of the rubble and ruin, sending them towards Jigano.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
