DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Adaptation and assimilation usually ensured some aspects of survival, and Deimos had learned to do it throughout each land he’d wandered within. Whether it be through war, battles, skirmishes, or mere aspects of everyday life, he studied, contemplated, and devised, a man of method and schemes, his mind never going to waste. Which was just as well, given Caido’s predilection and persistence in keeping them on their toes, adjusting, changing, and altering their paths on a daily basis.
Or at this juncture, rendering him with new incantations.
The awareness wasn’t lost on Jigano as he sailed and coasted down, both somewhat battered and beaten from their trials and practice. The General maneuvered his shoulder once more, fought off the wince, but not the growl conforming in his throat; having survived much worse, it would remain as a nuisance unless dealt with. And while Jigano had the ability to mend and assuage himself, the Sword was beaten in those regards. Too much death and damnation in his blood to ever be quite so given over to light.
Zuriel ambled nearby, and he ignored the look of either dissatisfaction or amusement, remaining silent and stoic as her horn pressed to the knotted bruise, and he could finally address the implications of the tornado he’d fired. “Apparently,” and he snorted. “Not certain when I acquired that,” which was likely for the lot of them; no announcements given or granted when the foreign concepts intertwined in their veins. Just a noticing, a strand eager to be pulled at the right moment.
On the notion of knowledge and sagacity though, he grabbed hold of the letter in his back pocket, crumpled, a bit weather-beaten from its journey through mountains. “I did have a question for you.” He unfolded the note, eyes running back over Kiada’s scrawl and words. “Do you know what the Eirachi is?” Because other than the words the Harpy had encompassed, Deimos was lost (not a place he enjoyed), and the bard was known for snagging at any information he could find.
Or at this juncture, rendering him with new incantations.
The awareness wasn’t lost on Jigano as he sailed and coasted down, both somewhat battered and beaten from their trials and practice. The General maneuvered his shoulder once more, fought off the wince, but not the growl conforming in his throat; having survived much worse, it would remain as a nuisance unless dealt with. And while Jigano had the ability to mend and assuage himself, the Sword was beaten in those regards. Too much death and damnation in his blood to ever be quite so given over to light.
Zuriel ambled nearby, and he ignored the look of either dissatisfaction or amusement, remaining silent and stoic as her horn pressed to the knotted bruise, and he could finally address the implications of the tornado he’d fired. “Apparently,” and he snorted. “Not certain when I acquired that,” which was likely for the lot of them; no announcements given or granted when the foreign concepts intertwined in their veins. Just a noticing, a strand eager to be pulled at the right moment.
On the notion of knowledge and sagacity though, he grabbed hold of the letter in his back pocket, crumpled, a bit weather-beaten from its journey through mountains. “I did have a question for you.” He unfolded the note, eyes running back over Kiada’s scrawl and words. “Do you know what the Eirachi is?” Because other than the words the Harpy had encompassed, Deimos was lost (not a place he enjoyed), and the bard was known for snagging at any information he could find.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
