DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Stones and earth smashed into one another, and his eyes riveted to the elemental display, powers colliding, fracturing, vastly similar in their ilk, neither superior to the other. He might have surveyed them more, had the distraction of the snowball flying through the air not conformed into bounding shadows. The beast reacted out of predisposition to action, a flare of something ghosting out of his mind, a push, a pull, of air. However, either through inexperience, the hollowed unknown, or lack of concentration, the wisps of the gust hardy mattered. The snowball smacked him cleanly in the shoulder, colder particles ricocheting over his face, causing him to shake his head, an undulation of skin and flesh to ripple beneath layers.
Which, apparently, Jigano had used to plot an escape.
The Sword's eyes narrowed, and the years of battlefield prowess stalked, presided, with him. He’d spent too many hours, days, weeks, and seasons honing the rapacity, the edges of instinctual design, to regard enemies and adversaries in their retreating forms. To hone and snag at victory, to diminish them until their utter defeat, to watch and bear witness as they either surrendered or succumbed. Perhaps it was much the same for all the predators pervading through his blood now: the eagle, the tiger, the bear, the hound, eclipsed and maneuvering for the end, the intentions always clear, always precise.
Except this wasn’t a dais of war, and this was no opponent of kingdoms and countries, of broken treaties and botched abductions. It was Jigano, and they were practicing.
A breath, an inhale, an exhale, a rivulet of memories washed back over and away. Still, he advanced, he stalked, following the bard’s motions, very much once a king, a Reaper, of a land meant to sever and disrupt, brutalize and condemn. The only feature that might have set the Sage at ease, that Deimos didn’t intend to pulverize and diminish, was the arch of his brow, the challenge, the goading, prolonged in the vestiges.
The General honed in on the magic from before, the one he knew less and less about, diving into its enchantments, its incantations, its breadth. It swirled and churned before him, a miniature tornado, and when he asked, brows furrowed, fixation finally immersed, it grew, picking up the notched stones from before, a swirling mass of earth and devastation. Then he sent it towards the Loreseeker, watching as it spun and gained velocity in its haphazard motions.
Which, apparently, Jigano had used to plot an escape.
The Sword's eyes narrowed, and the years of battlefield prowess stalked, presided, with him. He’d spent too many hours, days, weeks, and seasons honing the rapacity, the edges of instinctual design, to regard enemies and adversaries in their retreating forms. To hone and snag at victory, to diminish them until their utter defeat, to watch and bear witness as they either surrendered or succumbed. Perhaps it was much the same for all the predators pervading through his blood now: the eagle, the tiger, the bear, the hound, eclipsed and maneuvering for the end, the intentions always clear, always precise.
Except this wasn’t a dais of war, and this was no opponent of kingdoms and countries, of broken treaties and botched abductions. It was Jigano, and they were practicing.
A breath, an inhale, an exhale, a rivulet of memories washed back over and away. Still, he advanced, he stalked, following the bard’s motions, very much once a king, a Reaper, of a land meant to sever and disrupt, brutalize and condemn. The only feature that might have set the Sage at ease, that Deimos didn’t intend to pulverize and diminish, was the arch of his brow, the challenge, the goading, prolonged in the vestiges.
The General honed in on the magic from before, the one he knew less and less about, diving into its enchantments, its incantations, its breadth. It swirled and churned before him, a miniature tornado, and when he asked, brows furrowed, fixation finally immersed, it grew, picking up the notched stones from before, a swirling mass of earth and devastation. Then he sent it towards the Loreseeker, watching as it spun and gained velocity in its haphazard motions.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
