DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Basin once had its own poison doctor: D’art, master of venom, toxins, and any other infernal, gallowed thing. Deimos had never gone to him specifically, but the fellow conspirator had been worthy of merit, grit, and mettle, forging onward in his own means and measures. He hadn’t asked about any experimentation, and it was likely better that way – though now he wondered how much he’d missed out on, just in sagacity and wisdom.
But those were ghosts and fragments again, factions and fractions he couldn’t have again; a clench to the jaw, a gritting of teeth, and then it was gone in a breath, returning to the pervading interludes of nonchalance, a fading of wraiths and finite bones. “No,” uttered with a wry grin, as if he’d been the one to chase them down, to bombard and assault until naught moved again.
The list of those wandering out into LongNight hit a nerve, and it was mostly pertaining to his own inadequacies. “I was not asked.” In fact he’d received multiple lectures from Safrin on staying inside, while others were permitted, allowed, told to ramble out into the earth (and wouldn’t he want nothing more than to tear into the monsters, to rip demons into shreds, to call back to forces of violence, vitriol, and vehemence, to ensure they couldn’t, wouldn’t return). Perhaps he wasn’t strong enough (not worthy enough), no matter how much effort he put in, and the world knew it. “I am to stay in.” And guard, climb the walls in his restlessness, haunt the doorframes, sulk, brood in the corners. He listened to the list of items and weapons potentially needed or required, knowing Amalia wouldn’t want to wield one, and uncertain to the lengths in which Ronin or Jigano would be willing to go. “Let me know if you want those though. I can probably make them.” So he would feel somewhat contributive to the massacre; hating to be on the sidelines.
But those were ghosts and fragments again, factions and fractions he couldn’t have again; a clench to the jaw, a gritting of teeth, and then it was gone in a breath, returning to the pervading interludes of nonchalance, a fading of wraiths and finite bones. “No,” uttered with a wry grin, as if he’d been the one to chase them down, to bombard and assault until naught moved again.
The list of those wandering out into LongNight hit a nerve, and it was mostly pertaining to his own inadequacies. “I was not asked.” In fact he’d received multiple lectures from Safrin on staying inside, while others were permitted, allowed, told to ramble out into the earth (and wouldn’t he want nothing more than to tear into the monsters, to rip demons into shreds, to call back to forces of violence, vitriol, and vehemence, to ensure they couldn’t, wouldn’t return). Perhaps he wasn’t strong enough (not worthy enough), no matter how much effort he put in, and the world knew it. “I am to stay in.” And guard, climb the walls in his restlessness, haunt the doorframes, sulk, brood in the corners. He listened to the list of items and weapons potentially needed or required, knowing Amalia wouldn’t want to wield one, and uncertain to the lengths in which Ronin or Jigano would be willing to go. “Let me know if you want those though. I can probably make them.” So he would feel somewhat contributive to the massacre; hating to be on the sidelines.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
