DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
There was the slightest arch to his brow as Jigano apparently felt the need to divest himself of clothing (in the winter, already chilled once from earlier ministrations), and then it reverted back to its prior, nonchalant status as the notions became more apparent. Dragon wings rippling along spines, partial shifting to accommodate and allow for some evasion, and he snorted, shaking his head, conjuring more and more manifestations as the bard took flight.
Concentrating, he failed to notice the, thankfully, blunted spear until it was too late, rendering down upon him with a blasting vitriol and force, straight into his right shoulder. It knocked him back briefly, searing surprise in the midst of the ravenous. The pain was a splintering, binding, and then numbing experience, one he’d felt many, many times, attempting to shake off the nuances with flickers of motions through a roll of the muscles, but they complained vividly.
Irritating and vexing, to allow himself to be so distracted.
Clenching his jaw, growling inwardly, the Sword harpooned back to the machinations meant to be at hand earlier. Jigano was a suitable range away, clearly intending to remain out of controls and contortions wake, but it didn’t leave him completely free or liberated. The General would simply have to adjust his tactics.
A bow appeared in his hand, courtesy of creation magic, not bothering with artisanal patterns or displays. Arrows dipped with fire, with blunted tips, he brought the bow upwards, ignoring the protest of his shoulder, drawing back the string, to permit the rush of strength, ability, and control to go blazing forth on the release – aiming for wings.
Concentrating, he failed to notice the, thankfully, blunted spear until it was too late, rendering down upon him with a blasting vitriol and force, straight into his right shoulder. It knocked him back briefly, searing surprise in the midst of the ravenous. The pain was a splintering, binding, and then numbing experience, one he’d felt many, many times, attempting to shake off the nuances with flickers of motions through a roll of the muscles, but they complained vividly.
Irritating and vexing, to allow himself to be so distracted.
Clenching his jaw, growling inwardly, the Sword harpooned back to the machinations meant to be at hand earlier. Jigano was a suitable range away, clearly intending to remain out of controls and contortions wake, but it didn’t leave him completely free or liberated. The General would simply have to adjust his tactics.
A bow appeared in his hand, courtesy of creation magic, not bothering with artisanal patterns or displays. Arrows dipped with fire, with blunted tips, he brought the bow upwards, ignoring the protest of his shoulder, drawing back the string, to permit the rush of strength, ability, and control to go blazing forth on the release – aiming for wings.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
