DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos had never been one for poison. While furtive, specious, duplicitous measures were often employed, utilized, and conformed in plotting, in schemes, in divulging minimal information, venom and toxins hadn’t been granted any jurisdiction in his decisions. When the Reaper had been coming for his adversaries, they’d known it, in the stalking, presiding glimpses of his figure, in the smoking fathoms of the shadows, in the presence, grasp, of death and rasp of potency. Arts of intimidation and strength had done the rest, earning his reputation no matter which world, land, or kingdom he sought to defend, preferences leaning towards swords, towards munitions, towards armaments. There was a relish, a quiet satisfaction, in felling one’s enemies with the slash of a blade, with the emboldened, entangled lacerations, with a burst of incantations smothering, choking, the life out of them.
Poison was sneaky, underhanded, covert, an asp in the grass, rather than the monolith towering above it.
Except Jigano hadn’t meant anything of such accord – more for the vermin and pests in the Atheneum – and he nearly laughed at the notion of it. Hellbent machinations withstanding for eternity, bred and borne and blistered in his blood in spinning lifetimes; incapable of shaking away the irreverence in the shape and webbing of notions and speculations. The afterthought ceased his comment; no need to taint the whims of the library, too many other subjects, much less children, who could wander into the midst.
Complicated, really, as he sipped his tea and maneuvered away from kettles, leaning against the massive table, blocking out the endless maps and sketched he’d adorned on the walls – defenses to take shape later, in Flowerbirth hopefully, when LongNight’s press wasn’t so grave and pending. He arched a brow at the sly indications of the Sage, hastening away another snort, leaving it alone to settle into inaudible ethers. “I still prefer watching my enemies perish quickly.” Dry tones, with an inkling of a snicker, rumbled, speculations of a slow-withering death via venom a little less satisfying, as they wandered off across the earth and ceased breath elsewhere. He liked to know when they were felled and destroyed. To see the life drain away. To know they were no longer a threat to those he guarded, shielded, and protected.
Then the Sword’s musings drifted off to LongNight monsters, and upcoming entanglements with the hollowed hell. It was best to avoid it altogether, but if they were mulling and considering, they might as well have weighed their options if another nightmare arose. “Perhaps it would be worth a try.” So they knew what was ineffective, and what was not. A shrug to his shoulders; but not quite willing to cast someone out into the void for the mere gaining of knowledge.
Poison was sneaky, underhanded, covert, an asp in the grass, rather than the monolith towering above it.
Except Jigano hadn’t meant anything of such accord – more for the vermin and pests in the Atheneum – and he nearly laughed at the notion of it. Hellbent machinations withstanding for eternity, bred and borne and blistered in his blood in spinning lifetimes; incapable of shaking away the irreverence in the shape and webbing of notions and speculations. The afterthought ceased his comment; no need to taint the whims of the library, too many other subjects, much less children, who could wander into the midst.
Complicated, really, as he sipped his tea and maneuvered away from kettles, leaning against the massive table, blocking out the endless maps and sketched he’d adorned on the walls – defenses to take shape later, in Flowerbirth hopefully, when LongNight’s press wasn’t so grave and pending. He arched a brow at the sly indications of the Sage, hastening away another snort, leaving it alone to settle into inaudible ethers. “I still prefer watching my enemies perish quickly.” Dry tones, with an inkling of a snicker, rumbled, speculations of a slow-withering death via venom a little less satisfying, as they wandered off across the earth and ceased breath elsewhere. He liked to know when they were felled and destroyed. To see the life drain away. To know they were no longer a threat to those he guarded, shielded, and protected.
Then the Sword’s musings drifted off to LongNight monsters, and upcoming entanglements with the hollowed hell. It was best to avoid it altogether, but if they were mulling and considering, they might as well have weighed their options if another nightmare arose. “Perhaps it would be worth a try.” So they knew what was ineffective, and what was not. A shrug to his shoulders; but not quite willing to cast someone out into the void for the mere gaining of knowledge.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
