DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Marked down as another on his list of indifference (unless it directly involved some of his own), the Eirachi might’ve been something the Basin would’ve savored. Rather than the God of Time, a deity of their own ilk, flesh, and blood, could’ve been an ideal candidate for smiting the rest of the world. But here, in Caido, the art of making deals seemed far more treacherous, the payments too great, the hazards too grand to warrant an excuse. He’d had power. He’d had might. He’d had abilities. He’d taken what he could and the rest of the world with it – and felt no need to do it again. Years of toiling amidst debacles of diplomacy, politics, and then the following wars had riddled him far more withdrawn from the potential of it happening once more.
Content, to remain as he was, General, where familiarity and armaments carved over his bones, something to relish and savor.
Out of need for movement, instead of leaning against the table or crossing his arms across his chest, he wandered over to the drinks section, eyeing what was available, and shrugging at the hot refreshment boiled by someone passing through earlier. “Tea?”
While he wandered, prepared, and found some mugs, his eyes riveted back to the Sage for a moment, stifling, withholding, a sigh. “Yes,” not warranting much of explanations yet. “I made one for Sam.” His brows furrowed once more, lost in thought and methodical portions of what had come back. “Nothing was a struggle, and everything seemed normal again.”
Content, to remain as he was, General, where familiarity and armaments carved over his bones, something to relish and savor.
Out of need for movement, instead of leaning against the table or crossing his arms across his chest, he wandered over to the drinks section, eyeing what was available, and shrugging at the hot refreshment boiled by someone passing through earlier. “Tea?”
While he wandered, prepared, and found some mugs, his eyes riveted back to the Sage for a moment, stifling, withholding, a sigh. “Yes,” not warranting much of explanations yet. “I made one for Sam.” His brows furrowed once more, lost in thought and methodical portions of what had come back. “Nothing was a struggle, and everything seemed normal again.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
